


The Chessmaster: White Rook

by Flye_Autumne



Series: The Chessmaster [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, POV Multiple, Political AU, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Sane Voldemort, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flye_Autumne/pseuds/Flye_Autumne
Summary: Chessmaster Volume IV. AU. The Triwizard Tournament comes to Hogwarts, leading to more questions than answers. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to most, the power of the Dark Lord continues to grow, leaving Wizarding Britain balanced on the point of conflict…





	1. The Brethren

_ The Annex _

_ Gaunt House, Cornwall _

_ 17 July 1994 _

 

Lord Voldemort settled himself into the throne-like chair, steepling his fingers under his chin as he surveyed the room. All of the inner circle was present, with the noticeable exceptions of the Lestranges and Barty Crouch. Lord Voldemort allowed his gaze to linger on each member of the inner circle. He only allowed nine of his Death Eaters this close status, although, the number really was eight given that one of the nine was Thomas Gaunt. 

A smirk made its way onto his otherwise impassive face. His younger self had done remarkably well in gaining support during the unfortunate interim years. Of course, Thomas didn’t have all of the pieces; after all, he didn’t want to risk his horcrux turning on him. Magically speaking, Thomas should not be able to turn against him given the number of charms and dark magics woven into the ring, but Lord Voldemort was not one to take risks -- not anymore after the fiasco in Godric’s Hollow. No, he would be careful, to the point of too careful. He would be the power, and Thomas would act as the reason, and as one, they would seize control of Magical Britain. 

He cleared his throat, and immediately all eyes were upon him. “If you would sit.” 

Chairs scraped softly against the antique carpet as the inner circle took their seats. Most had aged well, although Thaddeus Nott and Cadmus Avery had gray hair mixed in with brown. Austin Yaxley and Severus looked more or less the same, and Lucius was aggravating timeless. 

“It is wonderful,” he began, “to be fully among you in the flesh once again. Each of you should consider yourself privileged to be here today. Those sitting in this room are the chosen few, the inner circle of the brethren. As you may have noticed, there are a few empty chairs. Some of our compatriots could not be among us. Soon, we will rectify that, and all of our most loyal will reunite once more. For now, however, we will proceed slowly and carefully. Thomas has began work on establishing a political power base, and we will continue to grow support for our side. 

“We need to commence recruiting the next generation of Death Eaters. My return must be kept secret for the time being, and you must begin determining who among your family is still loyal to the cause. Each of you will also be assigned several of those loyal to us the last time around. You must reach out to them, and determine if they are willing to serve the cause. If not, they will meet a similar end to Pettigrew.” 

Several of the Death Eaters paled, and the smallest amount of satisfaction welled up inside him.

“Avery, contact the Carrow twins, and your sister Fiona. Lucius, speak with Crabbe Sr, Robert Goyle, and Mulciber. Severus, you will meet with Karkaroff when he arrives at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. Determine his motives and if any other former Grindelwald supporters can be recruited.” 

The dour man nodded in acknowledgement. 

“Nott, contact Rosier, Erik Rowle, and his son Thorfinn. Yaxley, speak with Travers and Nathaniel Parkinson, as well as Alexander’s wife, Charlotte. Are you clear on those instructions?”

“Yes, my lord.” 

“Excellent. Yaxley, you have a question?”

“Yes, my lord. What about the Flints and the Burkes? And what about Gaunt?” 

“The Flints and the Burkes will be sounded out later. As for Thomas, he has his own duties separate from your own. You would be wise not to question my will.” 

Yaxley gulped, and a hint of fear made its way into his expression. “Yes, my lord.” 

“We also have a new contact in the United States. His name is Dmitry Razalas, and he is an Ilvermorny graduate currently attending the Harvard Institute of Advanced Wizarding Studies.”

Severus smirked. 

“Does something amuse you, Severus?” he asked, the sounds sibilant against his tongue. 

“No, my lord.”  

“Razalas will be join our cause here in Britain upon finishing his schooling. I expect all of you to extend him the same respect as you do to Thomas.” 

The assembled Death Eaters nodded, most of them wearing a carefully blank expression 

or a look of slight confusion. Severus and Lucius both looked pensive, and he doubted they would ever puzzle out the secret of Thomas Gaunt and Dmitry Razalas. It wasn’t that the two wizards lacked intelligence, but rather Lucius lacked the deep knowledge of the Darkest Arts, and Severus lacked the social wherewithal to determine the exact relationship between the three. 

Satisfaction welled inside him. This time, he would do it. This time, everything would be perfect. Albus Dumbledore, the muggle-loving fool, would be unable to stop him. He would plot carefully, build power slowly, and by the time they realized he was a threat, it would be far too late to stop him. 

A smile played around the edges of his lips once more. He, Lord Voldemort, would reign supreme over Magical Britain, and there wasn’t a single wizard who could stop him.

* * *

 

_ Personal Quarters of Severus Prince _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 17 July 1994 _

 

Severus could feel the headache building before he even fully arrived in his quarters. His insides were in turmoil, and he immediately quaffed an inordinate amount of Pain Relief Potion before flopping down on one of his armchairs. 

He had never thought he would need to do it again. The last war had been exquisite torture as he’d been trapped before two exceedingly different masters, both of whom had extremely high demands of his person. 

He didn’t think he could do it again. The constant turmoil, the everlasting fear of discovery, of death, of torture. Emotionally, he had allowed himself to become weak. He had been foolish enough to develop feelings, to believe that he, Severus, might be able to find happiness after all. 

Severus sneered at his own delusions. There were things many wizards had, such as friends, family, and happiness, and those simply were privileges Severus did not have. He wallowed in self-pity for a moment, and it quickly turned into self-hatred for his stupid whinging and idiotic hopes. The Dark Lord was back. Severus had made the return possible. 

He was at fault. 

He could only blame himself. 

Severus summoned a bottle of Firewhisky and a glass from the sideboard and poured himself a generous portion. He took a sip, and the whiskey burned down his esophagus. He exhaled, and allowed the false flames to lick their way around his lips. Briefly, Severus contemplated getting stupidly drunk, then dismissed the notion. He had serious issues he needed to figure out, and while a glass of Firewhisky would help, drinking the entire bottle would not. 

Severus swung his legs down from where they rested over the arm of the chair, forcing himself to sit up properly. He knew where his loyalties lay, but it was his nagging sense of obligation that held him back from freeing himself from the duties his double life forced upon him. 

He took another sip of Firewhisky, feeling more than halfway tempted to Floo into Dumbledore’s office and tell the old man he was done playing the spy, and that he’d appreciate a lot more gratitude for his work, along with a generous donation to his Gringotts vault and a nice, long holiday. 

But, he couldn’t do that, of course, emotions and blasted feelings of misguided loyalty be damned. If he didn’t spy, no one would, and they’d all be condemned to living the Dark Lord’s world. He likely would be fine, given that the Dark Lord seemed to trust him and held him in high esteem. Others, however, would not. Muggleborns would be forced down as second-class citizens, or otherwise obliviated of all memories of their families and forcibly integrated into wizarding society. 

While Severus did support some of the ideas proposed by Thomas Gaunt and his ilk, such as the primary schools that benefited all wizards, he was far removed from the hot-headed, angry, idealistic young wizard who pledged himself to the Dark Lord. He’d craved acceptance when he was younger, acceptance, and acknowledgment of his talents. He’d wanted to belong to something greater than himself, and Lucius Malfoy had offered pretty words and dreams of a life were he, Severus, was strong and revered instead of weak and reviled. He had blindly followed Lucius, and shortly after, had come to regret his decision. 

Dumbledore thought his betrayal of the Dark Lord solely was because of Lily, and while the potential of her death had been a major motivator, it hadn’t been the only reason. It had been the shove he needed to go to Dumbledore, and the culmination of infinite small injustices against his person. He’d expected to treated as an equal among the Death Eaters, and that simply hadn’t been the case. Instead of being Severus, skilled in the Dark Arts, he was Severus, that jumped up halfblood who had some skill in magic. Despite all the effort he put in, and despite the fact that he was indisputably one of the stronger wizards, his blood status followed him everywhere. 

It was that, and the fact that he didn’t have the stomach for killing, that’d changed his mind. He wasn’t one for mindless slaughter, and he didn’t have a gluttony for torture unlike  _ some  _ of the brethren. Severus had realized, far too late, that he didn’t believe in most of the Dark Lord’s ideology, and he disagreed with the methods by which the Dark Lord claimed his so-called victories. 

He’d been helpless, and the only one he could turn to was Albus Dumbledore. 

By Merlin, Severus hated the old man for what he’d done to him, and he hated the situation even more because he knew, had he been in Dumbledore’s shoes, he would have done the exact same thing. 

Severus sighed, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hands. It was perfectly awful, positioned as he was between two masters who happened to be the two strongest wizards of their time. There seemed to be no way forward that lead to his happiness; the only paths he could see lead to his certain death. 

Severus’ gaze fell onto his glass of Firewhisky, which stood empty on the table. In that moment, his life seemed much like the glass: empty, and mostly worthless. 

A knock sounded at the door to his chambers, pulling him out of his maudlin thoughts. 

“Come in,” Severus said, wondering who else would be in the castle in mid-July. 

The door opened, and soft footsteps entered, accompanied by the soft scent of orange and ylang-ylang. Warm arms settled around his shoulders. 

“Hello, Severus.” 

“Aurora,” he managed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“I wanted to watch the stars here, and I thought I’d see you. Are you quite alright?”

For a moment, Severus debated lying, then decided against it. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.” 

Aurora’s thumbs pressed into his trapezius. “You’re very tense.” 

“I just got back from a meeting.” 

“Hence the Firewhiskey?”

“Mm. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“I can’t.”

“Anything I can do to help?” 

“Probably not.” 

Aurora prodded his shoulders for several minutes, and Severus let his head hang, still feeling rather mawkish. Aurora gave his shoulders one final squeeze, then walked off, only to return with Severus’ chess set. 

Aurora cleared his table with a flick of her wand, and replaced the empty Firewhiskey glass with two steaming mugs of chai tea. Looking satisfied, Aurora set up the chess set. “C’mon, let me at least try to take your mind off things.” 

Severus straighten up. “I --”

“ _ Humor _ me, Severus.” 

“Fine.” 

“I’m playing white.”

“Sure.”

“Pawn to c4.” 

“Pawn to e5.” 

With that the game began in earnest. Severus was the vastly more skilled chess player out of the two of them, and while Aurora had an advantage playing white and the English opening, she lacked the skill to transition the strong opening to a successful mid game. With his move to e5, Severus ended up playing the Reversed Sicilian. Admittedly, it wasn’t his favorite opening, but it was one that allowed him to counter the English with relative ease. 

“Castle to h4,” Aurora said, uncertainty evident in her voice.

Severus shook his head. “Rethink that. Do you really want to move your rook there?” 

“I…” Aurora studied the board for a moment longer. “No, I suppose I don’t, because you’ll take it with your bishop.” 

“Right.” Severus flicked his wand, and the rook went back to its original square. “Think about what will help you advance your side,” he counseled. “You’ll have to get better at this -- no,  _ we’ll _ have to get better at this,” he amended, “if we want to have any hope of making it through what is to come.”


	2. Networking, and Other Fun Summer Activities

_Gringotts Bank_

_London, England_

_20 July 1994_

 

Ron squinted, and carefully inscribed another rune, stylus scraping gently against the stone. As he’d expected, rune inscribing was incredibly boring. It was hours upon hours of painstakingly chiseling tiny runes into stone tablets, and to be honest, it wasn’t his favorite job. Luckily, it paid well, since it was technically a job for an adult wizard. Ron wasn’t sure how he’d managed to get it, but he wasn’t about to question it due to the large number of Galleons accumulating in his Gringotts account.

Ron stretched, pushed back the sleeves of his green workrobe, and continued to work. As uncomfortable as it’d made him feel, the shopping extravaganza with Harry’s godfather had been a godsend. Not only did he have several new casual robes, but Sirius had also insisted on purchasing a very expensive, hand-tailored, Acromantula silk set of dress robes. They were charmed with several extra centimeters of fabric, which would lengthen the robe as Ron grew. Sirius had also bullied him into accepting a pair of hydra leather boots. The man had initially insisted on dragonhide, and it’d taken considerable argumentation on Ron’s part to talk him down to the less posh hydra leather alternative.

Tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth, Ron etched another rune, thinking once more of the Galleons in his account. He’d be able to help Ginny out a bit more this year. Ginny was extremely independent, but there also were many things she needed that their mum’s funds just didn’t cover -- not that there even were many of those funds left. Mum had been in a downward spiral, and barely had the energy to earn enough money to put a meal on the table. Being at the Burrow was simply depressing, and Ron and Ginny spent as much time at work as possible while Fred and George sequestered themselves in their bedroom. When the four were home, they spent their free time outside playing Quidditch and fighting over who got to ride Charlie’s old Shooting Star.

It was somewhat lonely in the Burrow without Percy bustling officiously around. Percy had landed a solid job doing legal work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and was taking classes at the Wizarding College at Cambridge. He’d started renting a flat in London immediately after graduating from Hogwarts. Ron had been there once; it was surprising nice, albeit blandly decorated.

The lunch gong sounded, and Ron quickly finished inscribing the final rune before standing up and heading out to the main lobby. Bill had promised to take him out for lunch, and Ron was thrilled.

Ron didn’t have to look hard to find Bill. He stood several centimeters taller than most wizards, a fact that was accentuated by his dragonhide boots, and his hair shone like a beacon. Ron discretely waved him over, and Bill’s face split into a wide grin.

“Hey, little brother, how are you?”

“Good. And not so little now,” Ron said, noting with pride that he was solidly taller than Bill’s shoulder. “I’m probably taller than Percy now.”

“Psh. Not that that’s really an achievement.”

Ron made a face, and Bill chuckled. “We’re going to a new Middle Eastern place I found the other day in Sydewaize Alley,” Bill said, easily falling into step next to Ron. “They’ve got some of the best food I’ve eaten in a long time. Authentic, fresh ingredients, and I’m pretty sure the owners make it themselves instead of using house elves.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

They walked in silence for several minutes.

“So, how’s work?” Bill asked.

Ron shrugged. “Eh.”

“Boring?”

“By Thunor’s bloody hammer, yeah. To be fair, it’s what I was expecting, but it’s still just so dull. Good money, though.”

“Mm. That’s unfortunate. It’ll be better, though, once you get your O.W.L.s if you want to keep working with Runes. There’s a couple of interesting apprenticeship programs you might like. Of course, you also could take the Percy route and go to uni. You’ve got great marks so far in school, so you can mostly do what you like.” Bill looked at him meaningfully, and Ron sighed. He could do what he liked, so long as he took up the Gryffindor lordship. It had seemed like such a fun opportunity at first, but now Ron was beginning to resent Charlie, Fred, and George for shirking their duties.  

“This is it,” Bill said, gesturing to a small shop. _Merlin’s Shawarma Shack_ was emblazoned across the top in white, and a wizard in a bright purple robe with a fluffy beard danced around the letters, even going so far as to charm some of them different colors. “It’s pretty great, huh?”

Ron inhaled deeply, and his stomach rumbled. “Uh huh. Can we go eat?”

“Of course.”

Several minutes later found them tucked into a booth, large shawarma wraps in front of them. Bill discretely set up a privacy charm.

“So, you like it?”

Ron swallowed his bite of chicken. “Yeah, this is fantastic.”

“Good.”

They chewed for a moment.

“So, how’s life at home?”

“It’s…” Ron considered lying for a moment. “...not so good. Mum’s been having a real hard time lately.”

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “Has it gotten worse?”

“Er…”

Bill looked away for a heartbeat. “Is she going to work, at least?”

Ron shrugged. “Sometimes? I really don’t know. You’d have to ask the twins; they’re the ones who are home the most.”

Bill sighed. “I’ll try to send more money your way, then, especially for school supplies. There’s going to be a few extra items this year.”

“Extra items? Like what?”

Bill waved a hand dismissively. “Never you mind. You have dress robes, right?”

Ron nodded. “Harry’s godfather bought me a set. I have boots that go with them, too.”

“Good. I want to start bringing you to networking events with me. Political things, just so you can start learning the ropes and are ready to take up your seat once you turn seventeen. I tried to help Percy a bit, but didn’t really have time because of work. He’s doing alright, though, I mean, he’s a right swot about it, which helps… Anyhow, I want you to be polished and set to go. Our family has been through a lot, and Percy and I have been working hard to revitalize the Weasley name. I know that Charlie, Fred, and George care about our family as well, but they don’t have the same responsibility and power that we do, being in the public eye.”

Ron nodded uncertainly, fully feeling the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders.

Bill smiled tightly. “You’re a good kid, Ron. I feel like it’s unfair, the amount of work you do and how much responsibility you have in our family. I wish I could change that…”

“It’s just how it is,” Ron said finally.

“But it’s not how it should be.”

They ate in silence. It wasn’t a particularly uncomfortable silence, but it was one that settled heavily in the air.

“Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we take Harry to these networking events, too?”

Bill thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not.”

“Alright. Oh. And one more thing…”

“Mm?”

“You should take Ginny out to lunch here,” Ron said, licking the last bits of his wrap off his fingers, “she’ll really like the chicken.”

* * *

_Letters Sent Between 20 July and 1 August 1994_

 

 

_Hey Ron!_

_How’s your summer been so far? Mine’s been pretty dull, since I’ve been stuck at the Dursleys for the past couple weeks. Sirius’ house was way more fun, but he hadn’t finished cleaning out all the Dark artifacts, so it was a bit dangerous. Plus, his house elf is creepy and really didn’t like me. I just finished the summer Runes homework, by Merlin Babbling assigns way to much work. Did you do it yet?_

_Anyway, do you want to go to the Quidditch World Cup? I asked nicely and managed to get tickets, and they’re in the Top Box, too! Do you think Hermione would want to go? I can try to get more tickets, but I don’t know how far the Boy-Who-Lived thing will take me. I suppose I could owl the Minister and see if he has any extra. He’s always awfully keen to take pictures with me, so maybe I could bribe him with that._

_Let me know! By the way, I told Hedwig to take your response back since you said Errol has been sick, so if she’s waiting around, that’s why._

_See you soon at Quidditch camp,_

 

_Harry_

 

 

  _Hi Harry,_

 

_Quidditch World Cup tickets? Are you joking? That’s crazy, I can’t believe you managed to get some, let alone ones in the Top Box. It’s suppose to be all sold out! Of course I would like to go, and I think Hermione would be interested as well, but you’d have to ask her. Also, Ginny is very jealous, and she said that you would be her most favorite person if you got her a ticket. Apparently some kid in her year as been bragging about going and lording it over her. No pressure, though, I understand if you can’t get any more._

_I finished the Runes homework a while ago; we should compare answers before we get back to Hogwarts. I got some really weird answers for some of the translations._

_Can’t wait for Quidditch camp,_

_Ron_

 

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_I know you’ll be surprised, but I’m actually already going to the Quidditch World Cup! It was one of the excursions you could sign up for for the summer camp I’m going to, and since it only happens once every four years, I figured it was a cultural experience that I shouldn’t miss. Besides, Millie would have hated me forever if I missed out on the opportunity._

_Of course I already did all our summer work. Why did you think you’d be done sooner than me? You should really make sure to review both elder and younger futhark because we’ll be working on the runic applications of spells this year. Hector Umbridge said we won’t even use Sumerian cuneiform or Egyptian hieroglyphics that much, but it would be good to review those as well._

_If I don’t see you at the Quidditch World Cup, we should arrange to meet up in Diagon Alley. Maybe you, me, Millie, Lily, and Ron could go get ice cream at Fortescue’s? I will owl them and let you know._

_Have fun at Quidditch camp,_

 

_Hermione_

 

 

_Hi Ron,_

 

_Hermione already has a ticket to the World Cup. Shocking, I know. I think I can get a ticket for Ginny. I’m just waiting for someone to owl me back. Also, I saw that you won a big chess tournament in the_ Daily Prophet _. The reporter said it was because Malfoy wasn’t there, but that’s obviously a load of rubbish._

 

_Harry_

* * *

_Letters Sent Between 10 August and 15 August 1994_

 

 

_Dear Bill,_

 

_Quidditch camp is loads of fun so far. I was worried it would be awkward because Harry pulled a favor to get me here (even if he says he didn’t), but it’s been fine. He definitely gets special treatment here, and he doesn’t seem to realize it, which I guess is good. He’s got way posher living quarters, and his roommates are Viktor Krum’s younger brother (yes, the Viktor Krum), one of Draco Malfoy’s rich cousins, and another super rich kid from France. Apparently they all lived together last year, too._

_My roommates are fine. They’re all older than me and don’t talk to me much, but I’ve been hanging around Harry’s cabin a lot. Baptiste Malfoy is a great chess player, so I’ve been able to get some good practice in. I didn’t expect to do that at Quidditch camp!_

_One of the coaches went to Hogwarts with Charlie, so that was pretty neat too._

_I’ve got to go to practice now, I’ll write you more later,_

_Ron_

 

 

_Dear Bill,_

 

_Do you think there will be problems at the Quidditch World Cup because Ireland will be playing?_

_Ron_

 

 

_Dear Ron,_

 

_I’m glad you’re having fun at camp. It sounds like it’s been a great experience for you, and a nice break from work. As for your question about the Quidditch World Cup, I honestly don’t know. I wish I could tell you that there wouldn’t be any problems, but I can’t say that for certain. I would keep your wits about you and your wand ready._

 

_Bill_

* * *

 

_Quidditch World Cup Stadium_

_Unplottable Location, England_

_25 August 1994_

 

Harry bounced with anticipation, unable to contain his excitement. It was finally the day of the Quidditch World Cup. He craned his neck, trying -- and failing -- to see over the crowd. The line to get into the stadium was far too long, and Harry was quickly losing patience.

Next to him, Ron chuckled. “We’ve still got a long ways to go.”

Harry scowled up at him. “Just because you’re taller than me…”

“...means I get to lord it over you every second of the day? Absolutely.”

Ginny snickered.

“Oh, shut it, Ginny.”

Ginny stuck her tongue out, and resuming bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly just as excited about the match as Harry was.

Ron glared at them in faux embarrassment. “Calm down, would you? Otherwise everyone will think you’re desperate for the loo.”  

Ginny snickered again. “Do you know what--” bounce “--I’m most excited for --” bounce “Ron?”

“What?”

“Ariadne Ogden and Marcela Marchbanks faces when they find out I was in the Top Box. They thought it was corking that they had seats in one of the towers, but oooh they’re going to be _so_ jealous that I was in the Top Box.”

Ron frowned. “Just don’t lord it over them, no matter how tempting it is. Otherwise you’ll come off as tacky.”

“Don’t tell me what to do! And I’m not stupid enough to do that, anyway. I’ll just mention it, casual-like.”

“So,” Harry interrupted, “who do you think is going to win?”

“Ireland!”

“Bulgaria!”

Ron and Ginny stared at each other.

“Look,” Ron said, “there’s no way Krum won’t get the Snitch.”

“Yeah, but Ireland’s Chasers are better, so if they build up a good enough lead, then it won’t matter if Krum gets it.”

“Harry, what do you think?”

Harry shrugged diplomatically. “The Chaser strategy is what we used against Durmstrang, and it obviously was effective. The thing is, I feel like that’ll be a lot less effective at a professional level just because the skill gap is likely smaller between the teams of Chasers. Also, if Bulgaria’s Beaters are good enough, they’ll be able to break up the Irish Chasers, so I really think it’s anyone’s game.”

“So, who’re you going to be cheering for?”

“Bulgaria, of course,” Harry said, patting his robes pocket where his pennet lay. “I’d be stupid not too, and besides, Stefan would kill me if I didn’t.”

“Stefan?” Ginny asked.

“Stefan Krum. Viktor’s younger brother,” Harry clarified. “I know him from Quidditch camp.”

Ginny goggled at him. “You know Viktor Krum’s brother!? That’s almost like knowing a celebrity!”

Ron turned on her. “You know Harry Potter!?” he mimicked. “That’s like knowing an actual celebrity!”

“Shut up, Ron,” Ginny and Harry chorused.

“I know Stefan, too.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Ginny wailed. “I could have spent the entire past week making plans!”

“Making plans?”

“Er, nevermind about that. Say, we’re almost to the front of the line! Isn’t that great?”

“Smooth, Ginny. Real smooth.”

Ginny elbowed Ron in the ribs, and he squawked indignantly.

Harry smirked at them, which led to a staring contest which only stopped when they reached the front of the line.

“Name and tickets, please,” the wizard said, sounding thoroughly bored.

Harry smiled winningly. “Harry Potter. I have three tickets.”

The wizard gaped at him, then suddenly remembered his manners. “T-top Box. Just keep climbing stairs until there’s none left.” He punched their tickets, and returned them to Harry. Once they were out of earshot, Harry turned to Ron. “I hate it when people act like that,” he complained as they climbed. “It’s so annoying.”

“It’s the price you pay for being famous.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to like it.”

“You certainly like getting free Quidditch tickets,” Ron pointed out.

“Yeah, but can I have just the perks of being famous? Having people gawk at me is awkward.”

“I’m afraid that’s just how it works.”

Harry mock pouted, and they climbed in silence. The stairs seemed endless, and for once, Harry was grateful for the cross-training workouts at Quidditch camp. At long last, they reached the top where yet another wizard checked their tickets before waving them into the Top Box. It was all Harry could do not to gape like a first year seeing Hogwarts. The view was spectacular, and the Quidditch Pitch was the most beautiful one Harry had ever seen. Silently, he promised himself that one day he would play for England in a stadium as awesome as this one.

“Harry!”

Harry whirled around, then broke into a wide smile. “Stefan! How are you?”

“Good, good. Excited to see Bulgaria beat Ireland, da?”

Harry chuckled. “Of course. Did you see the tiny Viktor Krum statues they were selling back at the campsite?”

Stefan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t buy one.”

“Nope. Did you?”

“Vhy vould I vant a small Viktor when the normal one bothers me all the time at home?”

“For the laugh?”

“Meh. Harry, I vant to introduce you to my parents, Daniel and Sofia,” Stefan said, gesturing to the couple next to him. Mama, Tatko, this is my friend, Harry Potter.”

Harry held out a hand for them to shake. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. They both shook his hand.

“Ve have heard much about you,” Daniel said, his accent far more pronounced than Stefan’s. “I am glad Stefan had a good friend at Quidditch camp.”

“It was great to have Stefan as a friend as well,” Harry said diplomatically.

“You vill be seeing more of him this year, da?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I don’t believe so?”

Stefan frowned, and whispered something to his parents in Bulgarian. Daniel’s forehead creased, then cleared. “My apologies. English is not the easiest.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel something fishy was afoot. “No worries. Stefan tried to teach me some Bulgarian at camp, and I was absolutely awful at it. Say, Stefan, Ron’s here too, and his sister Ginny.” Harry beckoned Ron and Ginny over from where they were hanging back. “Stefan, this is Ginny Weasley. Ginny, Stefan Krum.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Stefan said.

Ginny’s eyes were wide. “Pleased to meet you too.”

They were spared from any more awkward conversation by the arrival of the announcer to the Top Box. Harry, Ron, and Ginny quickly found their seats, which unfortunately were near Draco Malfoy, who was there with his cousin Baptiste and several other platinum blonde witches and wizards that could only be his cousins. Lucius and Narcissa were there too, and talking to other adults instead of their son. Harry didn’t blame them, and was quite shocked that they hadn’t been alerted to Draco’s presence right away.

Harry turned his gaze back to the announcer, who was arguing with a Ministry witch, before glancing towards the door. Immediately, he regretted it. Cornelius Fudge walked in with another wizard in tow, and beamed upon making eye contact with Harry. Harry groaned as Fudge made his way over.

“And here we go again,” Harry mutter to Ron, who winced slightly on his behalf.

“Harry!” Fudge greeted him genially, as if they were long-time acquaintances rather than people who had met a handful of time. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, and yourself?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Fudge said, his genial smile slipping slightly. “I’ve been escorting the Bulgarian Minister of Magic around,” he said in an undertone. “Bloke can’t understand a word of English.” Fudge turned to the wizard next to him, who was dressed in a rather expensive looking robe of black velvet trimmed with gold. “Mr. Oblansk -- Obalonsk,” he struggled, before giving up on the pronunciation, “This is Harry Potter.”

The Bulgarian Minister stared at Fudge blankly.

“ _Harry Potter_ ,” Fudge tried again, “you know, the Boy-Who-Lived? Come on, you know who he is…”

Oblansk spotted Harry’s scar, and recognition crossed his face.

Harry decided to go out on a limb. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Harry Potter,” he said in Bulgarian, silently hoping that the words were at least intelligible.

The wizard looked at him in surprise. “I am Andrei Oblansk. You speak Bulgarian?”

It took Harry a moment to piece together what the man had said. “No, I do not. Just a couple words.”

Oblansk said something else, and Harry tried for a friendly smile. “Sorry,” he said in English. “I don’t understand.”

Fudge was also looking at him in surprise. “Harry, you’re a man of many talents, I see.”

“Not really, I--”

“Everyone ready?” the announcer asked, face shining slightly with perspiration. “Minister -- ready to go?”

Fudge pulled away from the conversation with Harry with great reluctance. “Ready when you are, Ludo.”

The rotund man pointed his wand at his throat. “ _Sonorus!_ Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice boomed over the din of the stadium, “Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

Chaos reigned for a moment in the stadium as thousands of spectators cheered and waved their rosettes. The giant chalkboard in front of them cleared of advertisements and instead showed the score: Bulgaria: 0, Ireland: 0.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce...the Bulgarian National team mascots!”

“That’ll be veela,” Ron muttered next to Harry. “Shove your fingers in your ears unless you want to make an arse out of yourself.”

Feeling slightly confused, Harry stuffed his fingers in his ears as a flock of beautiful women glided out onto the field. They were great dancers, too, Harry noticed idly, and appeared to be chanting, too. For a moment, he contemplated taking his fingers out of his ears -- after all, he wouldn’t want the veela to think he didn’t like their performance -- before remembering that he didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Malfoy and the others.

“And now,” roared the announcer, “the Irish National Team Mascots!”

Harry removed his fingers from his ears, and watched in amazement as a green-and-gold comet soared into the stadium.

“It’s leprechauns!” Ginny squealed, watching in delight and the comet formed into a shamrock and a rainbow arched over the Pitch. Gold coins rained down.

“Don’t bother grabbing any,” Ron said quickly. “Leprechaun gold doesn't last.”

The great shamrock dissolved, and the leprechauns took up a spot across from the veela.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome -- the Bulgarian national Quidditch Team! I give you -- Dimitrov!”

A scarlet blur whizzed out of an entrance at next to the Pitch, and Harry watched it eagerly in the Omnioculars he’d borrowed from Sirius.

“Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaaand -- Krum!”

Harry twiddled the dials on his Omnioculars. Viktor looked exactly like Stefan, albeit with a larger nose. The side of his broom was emblazoned with the word “Firebolt”, and Harry felt a twinge of jealousy.

“And now,” the announcer continued, “please greet  -- the Irish National Quidditch Team! Presenting -- Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaaaand -- Lynch!”

“Moran -- do you reckon he’s related to Aoife and Aedan?” Harry asked Ron quietly.

“Yeah, but it’d be best not to mention it,” Ron replied. “There’s some wizards from Northern Ireland who opted to move across the border, and it’s a big sore point for most of the covens.”

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”

Harry watched eagerly as Mostafa kicked open the crate of balls and sped into the air. After a blast from his silver whistle, Mostafa soared into the air after them.

“Theeeeeeeeeeey’re off! And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

Harry’s eyes were glued to his Omnioculars. He’d thought the English professional teams were good, but even they couldn’t hold a candle to the obvious prowess of the Irish Chasers. Harry almost wished he’d brought a notebook to take notes in, but the notion was laughable due to the speed of the game.

Just as Harry predicted, the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, had their work cut out for them. The Irish Chasers were a well-oiled goal scoring machine, and Volkov and Vulchanov had to prevent them from earning more than a 150 point lead. The match quickly became more brutal, each side earning their fair share of fouls. Viktor Krum pulled of two impressive Wronski Feints, and Harry shook his head at the idiocy of the Irish Seeker. Honestly, the Wronski Feint was Krum’s signature move.

The game passed by all too quickly, and Harry was more than slightly disappointed when it ended, Bulgaria losing by a mere ten points.

“He had to do it,” Ron said, “The Irish Chasers were just too good.”

“I know, at least he was able to end it on his own terms.”

The trophy ceremony happened quickly, the Irish looking all too smug, with the exception of Aidan Lynch, who had crashed into the ground far too many times. The crowd began to dissipate, and Stefan found his way over to Harry. “Harry -- and Ron and Ginny, if you are interested -- my family plans to hold a small gathering in our tent for Viktor -- just a small thing, away from the fans -- and you are velcome to come.”

“We would love to,” Harry said, grinning.

Ron and Ginny looked like Yule had come early. Harry had the feeling that Ginny would be talking about it for the rest of the summer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some of Ludo Bagman’s dialogue has been borrowed from chapter eight of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I am currently looking for a beta reader for this series. If you are interested, please email me at flyeautumn@gmail.com and give a brief description of any beta experience or skills you have.


	3. The Fudge Factor

# 

_ Office Space of Cornelius Fudge _

_ Ministry of Magic, London _

_ 26 August 1994 _

 

Lucius Malfoy neatly crossed his ankles, and tucked them behind a chair leg, resigned, as always, to listen to the useless twaddle of one Dolores Umbridge. It was incredibly frustrating, and not to mention grating to hear her simper endlessly in hopes of gaining the Minister’s favor. Even worse, Fudge seemed to be buying her cloying words, and not for the first time, Lucius silently cursed the fact that he was surrounded by complete and utter idiots. Not for the first time, Lucius wished that he could delegate his work to someone else, but, of course, a lesser wizard would be unable to navigate the political waters of the Ministry with the same finesse as him. 

Lucius waited patiently as Umbridge continued to blabber on, and when the batrachian witch paused for breath, he interjected smoothly, “Cornelius, I believe we planned to discuss the Triwizard Tournament.” 

Cornelius started, then flushed a dull red. “I--” 

“I believe you owled me regarding concerns about the increased number of students in Hogwarts?” Lucius interrupted. 

“Er, ah, yes, I did,” Cornelius manages, still flustered. “If I could just find the papers the Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang sent…” 

Lucius flourished a copy from his robes pocket. “Do not concern yourself. I have one with me.” 

Cornelius pauses, midway through ruffling papers on his desk, and Lucius fancies he can see a slight sheen of perspiration on the man’s face. “Of course, of course. Always prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

Lucius couldn’t bring himself to dote, and smiled coldly. “Of course, Minister.” 

Cornelius freezes for a moment, clearly aware that he made a misstep, but uncertain on how to rectify it. “Very well then. And the Board of Governors decided?” 

“It will be no problem to house the foreign students in Hogwarts,” Lucius supplied easily. “After all, the school historically housed two thousand students back in the day, and acted as a sanctuary for the villagers of Hogsmeade, besides.” 

Cornelius looked surprised. “Ah. Is it wise, however, to let them attend classes with Hogwarts students?” 

Lucius suppressed the urge to throttle the man. Not only had this particular subject been hashed out over and over again, but it belonged firmly in the realm of the Board of Directors, and had nothing to do with the Minister. It wasn’t even a particularly political one -- for Merlin’s sake, Lucius and Dumbledore were in agreement -- but Cornelius kept nattering on about the wisdom of the decision, plagued as he was by xenophobic doubts. Umbridge was likely the source of those particular thoughts, prejudiced as the woman was against anything that wasn’t pureblood and English. By Woden’s staff, the woman could hardly hold a civil conversation with Aengus Moran or Archibald MacMillan, and both wizards were as pureblooded as they came. Moran could trace his lineage back to the Tuatha Dé Danann, and the MacMillans, like many of the other Scottish clans, claimed the legendary witch Beira, Queen of Winter, as one of their forebearers. 

It was an exceedingly foolish prejudice, and one that made the Umbridges unpopular with many on the Wizengamot. Lucius frankly was surprised Dolores had yet to cause a diplomatic disaster. 

“Any scheduling concerns have already been addressed by the Board of Governors,” Lucius said smoothly, knowing any mention of Albus Dumbledore would only make Cornelius more pigheaded. “Furthermore, one of Durmstrang’s Dueling instructors is chaperoning their students, and has graciously volunteered to assist in running a Dueling club for all students. Both the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons faculty have also volunteered to guest lecture in History of Magic and Wizarding Studies classes to provide students with a more well-rounded perspective --”

“ _ Hem hem. _ ”

Lucius ignored Umbridge’s juvenile attempt at attention grabbing. “Beauxbatons has also opened five places in their summer Potions and Alchemy Symposium to Hogwarts students. They also expressed interest in an exchange program with Hogwarts, pending a successful and politically pleasant Triwizard Tournament.” 

“ _ Hem hem _ .” 

Lucius raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Problem, Dolores?” 

The woman smiled, and Lucius wondered what she hoped to achieve with such a horrendous facial expression. “Aren’t you concerned, Lucius --”

“Lord Malfoy,” he corrected idly. 

Umbridge flushed an unflattering shade of red. “Lord Malfoy, about these...strange ideas these foreigners might impress upon our children? I’m sure you wouldn’t want your son exposed to such outlandish ideas.”

Lucius stared at Umbridge coldly. “Narcissa and I considered sending Draco to Durmstrang, and given that he spent the summer with his cousins in France, I doubt he will be ‘exposed’, as you say, to anything I deem inappropriate under the tutelage of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang instructors.” 

Umbridge gaped at him, now looking more pescatary than batrachian. 

“Cornelius, if you wouldn’t mind dismissing your secretary, I have matters of a more confidential nature to discuss with you.” 

The Minister’s countenance quickly shifted from despondent to cheerful. “Of course. Dolores, if you could leave us…”

Umbridge hastily gathered her quill and parchment and left, sending Lucius a look of pure loathing.  Cornelius looked at him expectantly. 

“Charming woman, your secretary.”

Cornelius blinked at the non-sequitur. “Ah, yes, she is quite helpful.” 

“A bit of an ultracrepidarian, isn’t she?” 

Cornelius scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “Ah, well, I’ll admit I’ve encouraged her a bit. She is rather well-informed, after all.” 

“Mm. And in the realm of international affairs?”

Cornelius opened his mouth, reconsidered, and shut it. Lucius quirked an eyebrow, and the man had the decency to look embarrassed. “I -- she may be somewhat less informed in that regard.” 

“She is very poorly informed in that regard, and to be frank with you, it’s a small miracle she hasn’t caused a diplomatic disaster.”

Cornelius all but gaped,  and Lucius decided to press the man further in order to make him frantic, then offer the perfect solution. 

“You recall the most recent Wizengamot Ascension vote, yes?” 

“Of course -- I --” 

“You may recall how House Umbridge barely managed to receive the eight votes necessary to move to the next stage of the process, while Runcorn, which pulls from the same powerbase, received fifteen votes.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Cornelius spluttered. 

“Most of the Wizengamot knows that Dolores is the real voice behind her husband,” Lucius continued, voice low. “Dolores has managed to insult each pureblood house which isn’t mainly English. As you can imagine, for many of us who have cordial relations or family with these Houses, Dolores’ comments were not well-received.” 

“I doubt that. What do you even mean?” 

“She refuses to speak with Lord Moon on the account that House Moon claims to descend from the Old Folk, and she also will  not speak with Lord Moran or Lord MacMillan because they hail from Northern Ireland and Scotland respectively.” 

Cornelius looked taken aback. “I was not aware of that.” 

“Mm. Should I continue on? Her grudge against Lord Greengrass seems to stem from the fact that he and his family are Welsh, as does her dislike for Lord Bulstrode and his ilk. Need I remind you that Dolores has shown a pathological hatred for foreigners, and Lord Bulstrode married a Dolohov?” 

Color drained from Cornelius’ face. “Merlin and Morgana save me.” 

“Thankfully, we do not have many diplomatic exchanges with the Tsardom, but is that a risk you are willing to take?” 

“By Seaxnēat’s sword, no. I remember the war as well as anyone,” Cornelius said, eyes wide, “Antonin Dolohov...it took an entire team of Aurors to put him in Azkaban.” 

“His older brother, Sergei, is the current tsar.”

Cornelius nodded in acknowledgement. 

“He is perhaps more dangerous than Antonin, because he has the added benefit of ruling an empire, and also being sane.”

Cornelius gulped, and Lucius thanked the gods he was so impressionable. “What would you suggest?” 

“I have a lead on a young wizard from the States, actually. Ilvermorny graduate, Thunderbird House. He’s currently attending the Harvard Institute of Advanced Wizarding Studies, and focusing on International Affairs and Arithmancy. A mutual friend put me in contact with him as he’s interested in politics but finds some of MACUSA’s policies distasteful.”

Cornelius looked intrigued. “And what is his name?” 

“Dmitry Razalas.” 

“Russian?”  
“No, he’s an American.” 

“And you believe he can successfully handle British politics?” 

“I would not have recommended him unless I had absolute confidence in his skills.”

“Ah. Of course.” 

“I will pass his résumé onto you.” With that, Lucius stood, pulling his robes so they once again lay perfectly on his shoulders. “I’m afraid I must get to another meeting now. It was a pleasure, as always, to meet with you, Cornelius.” 

“Likewise.” Cornelius looked pensive. “You, as always, have been very informative. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“If you have queries regarding Dmitry, do not hesitate to owl me. Until next time.” Lucius swept out of the room, leaving a somewhat flustered Minister of Magic behind him. Once he was out of view, a smug smile made its way onto his face. Thomas had been rather explicit about his plans regarding Dmitry Razalas, and the importance of landing the man a position in the Ministry. 

Admittedly, Lucius had initially been suspicious of the man, despite the fact that both the Dark Lord and Thomas backed him. Razalas, after all, simply was Salazar backwards, and clearly a pseudonym. Any attempts to dig further into Dmitry Razalas’ background had been met with resistance, and when Lucius pressed Thomas for answered, he’d simply responded with ‘ _ Dmitry’s origins do not concern you. Rest assured that his blood is as pure as mine.’ _

Lucius had accepted the answer -- after all, he did trust Thomas, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder why he wouldn’t divulge the younger wizard’s secrets. He was also mildly annoyed that Dmitry already had the ear of the Dark Lord. Lucius had fought long and hard to gain acknowledgement beyond being Abraxas’ son, and for Dmitry to simply be able to waltz in and be granted the same level of respect as Thomas was absurd, especially given that Dmitry hadn’t even graduated from uni yet. 

Lucius’ smile turned from smug to grim. He would have to work harder in order to keep his spot in the Dark Lord’s pecking order. The older wizard held Severus in frustratingly high esteem, and Lucius needed to figure out how to usurp Severus to gain the position of prestige which rightfully belonged to him. 

His expression transformed once again into smugness as he strode down the Ministry corridor, thoughts turning towards his family. The twins, Semper and Selene, hadn’t shown any signs of magic yet, but that was to be expected given that they were only several months old. Draco, on the other hand, was an entirely different problem. The boy’s general countenance had greatly improved during his summer in France, and he’d returned to Britain much more proper and poised than when he left. He was also much more respectful towards Lucius, a change that was mildly baffling, but not unwelcome. 

With any luck, Draco’s behaviour would continue to improve throughout the school year given that his cousins would also be at Hogwarts due to the Triwizard tournaments. Dorian had pulled several strings to ensure that all of his children would be a part of the Beauxbatons delegation, and Lucius sincerely hoped that Draco would be a helpful host to his cousins during their stay at Hogwarts. It would be beyond embarrassing if another Hogwarts student took on that role, especially given the students in Draco’s year that showed significantly more talent and political gumption than him. 

Of course, most fourteen-year-olds weren’t political masterminds. It wasn’t expected of them, and it hardly was realistic for a teenager to understand the nuances that underlaid British Wizarding politics. It was reasonable, however, for them to begin to realize their greater role in society, and begin to form cordial relationships with their future colleagues. Draco, of course, had managed to alienate most of his peer group by playing the fool. For Merlin’s sake, Ronald Weasley had a better relationship with Theodore Nott than his own son did, and Theodore and Draco had known each other since infancy. 

Ronald Weasley certainly seemed to be a boy that defied the odds. Dorian’s second oldest son, Baptiste, spoke well of him, saying Ronald was not only a phenomenal chess player, but also a strong Quidditch player and a good conversationalist. Lucius had spotted the boy with his brother in Diagon Alley and remarked on the mature manner in which he carried himself. Despite his recent improvements, Draco didn’t carry the same presence as Ronald Weasley did. Draco gave the air of a child desperately trying to fill an adult’s boots while Ronald Weasley simply  _ was _ . 

Lucius shook his head ruefully. It certainly was under odd circumstances that a Malfoy preferred a Weasley over his own trueborn son. 


	4. Welcome Back

# 

_ Diagon Alley _

_ London, England _

_ 28 August 1994 _

 

“What about this one?” 

Hermione blanched. “Please no.” 

Lily smirked. “But why?” she asked, giving the chartreuse fabric a swirl. “It’d be a flattering color on you.” 

They looked at each other for a moment, then burst into giggles. “You do have proper dress robes, right?” 

“Of course. Harry’s godfather insisted on buying them for me.” 

“Ah, so they’re nice then.” 

Hermione nodded fervently. “Acromantula silk, and double-lined. I tried to convince him not to buy them because they were rather expensive, but once he gets an idea in his head, he becomes very mule-headed.” 

“I extend my sincerest condolences,” Lily said, straight-faced. “It must be absolutely terrible to own an expensive pair of dress robes. I don’t know how you can bear it.” 

“Oh, shut it.” 

They exchanged another look, and once again delved into laughter. “Alrighty, we should probably head out now if we want to meet Millie in Flourish and Blotts.” 

They took one last look at the garish robes on the clearance rack before piling out of Madam Malkin’s. Diagon Alley was crowded, as usual, for the end of August, with parents chivying their children along to buy school supplies and pods of students goggling at the latest Quidditch gear as they clutched large dripping ice creams from Fortescue’s. Hermione and Lily expertly wound their way through the crowd, dodging floating shopping bags and avoiding hawkers. 

At last, they arrived at Flourish and Blotts. Millie was there already, grinning broadly and excitedly waving hello. Hermione could have sworn the girl had grown by several more centimeters. 

“How were your summers?”

“Good!” Lily enthused. “We went to Rome, and saw some pretty awesome gladiator fights at the Colosseum. There were two guys who took down a chimaera, which was incredible.”

“The Colosseum?” Hermione checked.

“Yeah.”

“Wasn’t that destroyed?”

Lily winked. “Only the muggles think so.”

Hermione shook her head. “When I think I’ve learned everything, stuff like this gets

sprung on me. I didn’t even know just how awesome the real Stonehenge was until this summer when the camp I went to had a field trip there.” 

“Eh, you’re fine, Hermione. Which camp were you at?” 

“The one sponsored by Lord Gaunt.”

Lily and Millie exchanged a look that Hermione couldn’t quite decipher. “And how was that?”

“It was pretty fun, actually. I even got to go the Quidditch World Cup.” 

Millie brightened. “Really? What did you think? Did you see Krum? Isn’t he just amazing?” 

“Yes, it was great, yes, and yes,” Hermione said, “I mean, it was Quidditch, but wow, it was good. Definitely a lot more interesting than watching school games.” 

Millie nodded fervently. “I can only imagine the ideas Harry’s going to get for drills after watching the World Cup. Higgs will probably go along with it, too.” 

“Oomph.” 

“Yeah.”

“Are we going to get our books or just stand here talking?” Lily asked. 

“Sorry,” Hermione and Millie chorused.

“It was her fault!” Hermione exclaimed, pointing a finger at Millie. “She’s the one who started talking about Quidditch!”

“Oi!” 

“Alright, alright, so books,” Lily interjected. “What do we need?”

Hermione unfurled the school supplies list from her pocket. “Let’s see, the  _ Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four _ ;  _ The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _ ;  _ Exotic Elixirs for the Intermediate Potioneer _ ;  _ Winogrand’s Wondrous Water Plants _ , and I think that’s it for core classes, since we’re still using the Intermediate Transfiguration book. We need volume two of  _ Numerology and Grammatica _ for Arithmancy;  _ An Introduction to Runic Casting _ for Ancient Runes; and, Merlin save us, we’ll be using the  _ Monster Book of Monsters _ again for Care of Magical Creatures.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me of that horror.” 

“I was tempted to drop Creatures this year,” Hermione admitted, “but I really want it for O.W.L.s next year.” 

“How’d you not end up in Ravenclaw?”

Hermione smirked. “Magic.” 

Lily rolled her eyes. “Ha ha.” 

Hermione stuck her tongue out in a fit of eloquence, and the trio set off into the depths of Flourish and Blotts. Hermione quickly found the texts she needed, then hurried over to the section on Dueling. She’d made significant progress over the past year, which could be largely attributed to Aria Nott. Now that the older girl had graduated, Hermione would once again be on her own, and she didn’t think for a moment that Slytherin’s resident Blood Purists had changed their minds regarding her. If anything, they would be more skilled than before, which made it even more important that Hermione continued to improve. 

Hermione scanned the titles and the tables of contents before deciding on three books:  _ Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts _ ;  _ The Darks Arts Outsmarted _ ; and  _ Curses and Counter-Curses _ . While  _ Curses and Counter-Curses _ looked to be much lighter reading than the other two, it covered a far wider breadth which would be incredibly helpful for her. 

Lily walked up behind her. “That’s an aggressive amount of dueling books.”

Hermione jumped. “Merlin, you startled me. And no, it’s not. This one --” she gestured to  _ The Dark Arts Outsmarted _ “--is technically a supplementary text for O.W.L. DADA.” 

Lily gave her a look, and Hermione stared right back, daring her friend to challenge her selection. 

“Are you still worried about…” Lily began.

“Yes, and we can talk about it later when we aren’t in the middle of a bookstore,” Hermione cut in. While she had thoroughly humiliated Atlas Carrow and his cronies the year before, she wasn’t going to put anything past them, especially given that there were five of them and one of her. 

Lily opened her mouth to respond, but was spared from answering by Millie’s arrival. 

“I grabbed the last copy of Gwenog Jones’ latest book,” Millie said, puffing slightly. “Nearly snatched it out of Angelina Johnson’s hands. The Gryffindors aren’t going to be happy with me.” 

“...that’s great, Mil.” 

Millie looked between the two of them. “Did I miss something?”

“No, just Hermione’s absurd amount of extra book purchases.” 

“You’re one who has the boxed set of the  _ Mysteries of Hretha  _ trilogy,” Millie pointed out. “At least me and Hermione bought useful books.” 

Lily sniffed primly. “Reading creative literature expands the mind.” 

Millie rolled her eyes. “Sure it does. I swear, if you think Hretha should have ended up with Lazarus instead of Cato, I will fight you.”

“...er…” 

“You can’t be serious! Lazarus is the stupidest character in the series!”

“Well…”

Millie and Lily continued to bicker all the way to the cashier, down the Alley, and didn’t stop until they arrived at Fortescue’s. Harry and Ron were there already, and tackling the most enormous ice creams Hermione had ever seen.

“We saved you seats!” Ron called, gesturing to their table. “Also, don’t try the currant ice cream unless you  _ really _ like currants.” 

Hermione nodded at the sage advice, and went off to order herself a reasonably sized triple chocolate cone. They ate in silence for several minutes, savoring the delicious ice cream and trying to avoid drips, since Hermione had decided not to spend the extra three Knuts for a Drip-Free cone. 

“So, how was everyone’s summer?” Ron asked.

“The Quidditch World Cup was amazing!” Millie gushed as Hermione and Lily groaned in unison. Quidditch was fine and all, but did they really need to discuss the same game sixty times? 

After several minutes of heated debate about whether Krum had made the right decision, there was a lull in the conversation, which Hermione used to interrogate Ron about his Gringotts job. The work sounded interesting on a conceptual level, albeit rather dull in reality. Hermione decided she would thoroughly research similar opportunities for herself for the next summer.  

“Does anyone have any good advice about what I should do about Sirius?” Harry asked suddenly.

“What’d he do?” 

Harry fiddled with a couple of cone crumbs that’d fallen onto the table. “He keeps _buying_ me things. He  just got me the latest edition of the Firebolt despite the fact that he got me the first edition last year for Yule, and the amount of Galleons he’s spending makes me uncomfortable. I don’t need him do any of those things; honestly, just having time away from the Dursleys is good enough.”

“Have you tried talking to Sirius about it?”

“Yeah. Kind of. He always says things about making up for lost time.” 

“Maybe he would be more receptive if you told him it made you uncomfortable?”

Harry didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. I could try.” 

“I wish I had the problem of my relatives spending too much money on me,” Ron said, jealousy creeping into his voice. “The only one I have left besides Mum is Great-Aunt Muriel, and she has a tighter grip on her Galleons than a dragon has on its hoard.” 

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. 

“So, what does everyone think the mandatory dress robes are for?” Lily asked in an effort to change the subject.

“I dunno, but I got new glasses when we were out buying mine,” Harry said. “They’re charmed with  _ Impervius _ , so they won’t get blurry or foggy when I play Quidditch in bad weather.” 

Hermione resisted the urge to bang her forehead against the table at Harry’s lack of tact and the inevitable turn the conversation took towards Quidditch.

* * *

 

_ Hogwarts Express _

_ Somewhere, United Kingdom _

_ 31 August 1994 _

 

Harry watched idly as Ron moved forth his knight, clearly on his way to trouncing Hermione in chess once again, much to her obvious displeasure. Lily was curled up in a corner reading a book, and Millie and Theo were engaged in a heated whispered discussion. Theo had beggared his way into their compartment -- apparently, Malfoy was acting too strange for words, and Blaise was walking around with a stick up his arse after the events of the summer. Harry had no idea why that was, especially since it was Blaise’s mum who’d been dumped at the altar. 

“Did anyone hear who the new prefects are?” Lily asked. 

“Evan Rosier and Cassandra Parkinson are the new Slytherin prefects,” Millie said, abandoning her conversation with Theo. “Pansy’s been bragging about it all summer. She thinks she’s going to get special privileges because her cousin is in charge.”

“Gross.” 

“I know.”

“Anyone know the other houses’ prefects?”

“I think it’s Marietta Edgecombe and Silvanus Scabior from Ravenclaw,” Theo said, ticking them off on his fingers, “Richard Fortescue and Maxine O’Flaherty from Hufflepuff, and Ava MacBeth and Jamie McGonagall from Gryffindor.” 

“Of course old McGonagall would choose her nephew for prefect,” Millie grumbled. “Euan got it in his year, too.” 

“Grand-nephew,” Theo idly corrected. “Jamie is the grandson of old McGonagall’s younger brother. Euan is the grandson of her older brother, Moray, the clan head.”

“Sounds like they get special privileges,” Harry complained. 

“Who else would they choose for the Gryffindor prefect in that year? McLaggen?”

“The berk who thinks he’s a Quidditch star?”

“That’s him.”

“Urgh. Thank Merlin he’s not a perfect.”

“Exactly. It’s not as if Slytherin prefect selection is any less biased, anyway,” Theo continued. “I don’t even know how far back you’d have to go to find a prefect who didn’t have a family member in the House of Lords.” 

Across the compartment, several chess pieces fell to the ground. 

“Oi!” Ron complained. 

Hermione, meanwhile, looked furious. “Excuse me?” 

“What?” 

“Only people with strong political connections become Slytherin prefects, or prefects at all?” 

Theo looked rather uncomfortable. “Er, it’s not a rule persay, just a tendency…” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione demanded. 

“Well...ah...purebloods just tend to do better academically, and have more leadership positions in clubs, and such…”

Hermione pounced. “Purebloods do better academically, huh? Yeah, right. If that was true, how in Merlin’s name would I have been top in our year in every class?”

“I didn’t say always, just tend to…”

Hermione cut him off. “Maybe you should think before you speak, Nott.” 

“Look, Hermione, you’re taking this the wrong way, you know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Hmph. I bloody well better get prefect next year, if good marks are all they’re looking for.”

“...and leadership…” 

“I’ll re-establish the Dueling Club or something. Anything to show that muggleborns can be just as good at purebloods.” 

An uncomfortable silence descended over the compartment, with the exception of whispered chess instructions and quiet cursing from Hermione’s direction as she continued to lose against Ron. Harry wasn’t sure what to think. Millie, Lily, Theo, and Ron all had the advantage of not only having direct relatives sitting on the House of Lords, but also coming from a long pureblood lineage. As a muggle-raised halfblood with a seat waiting for him on the House of Lords, Harry felt he didn’t quite fit in any group, and he also had the added privilege of being the Boy-Who-Lived. Fame was useful sometimes, but Harry was tired of going to Chudley Cannons games with Ron and having everyone in the VIP box bother him for his autograph. 

After what felt like ages, it was time to change into their school robes, and pile out of the train onto the blustery platform and into the horseless carriages. Harry pressed his nose against the window of the carriage, staring longingly at the welcoming bulk of Hogwarts looming above them. It’d been far too long since he’d been home. 

The Sorting ceremony couldn’t come soon enough. A line of small first years made their way across the dais, with one short boy swathed in Hagrid’s overcoat. Harry idly wondered if the boy had tried to go swimming, or if the wind had blown him out of the boat. 

Harry’s stomach rumbled, distracting him from the Sorting Hat’s song, which, from the parts he had paid attention to, seemed just as corny as it’d been the previous year. 

Professor McGonagall stepped forward. “When I call your name, please sit on the stool and place the Hat on your head to be Sorted. Creevey, Dennis!” 

The small boy abandoned Hagrid’s overcoat and plunked himself down on the stool. 

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Del Valle, Carla!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Fergusson, Douglas!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Greengrass, Everard!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Gustafson, Marley!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Harry quickly lost interest in the Sorting Ceremony, only remembering to clap when ‘Kaltwasser, Sylvia,’ became a Slytherin. He was too hungry to focus on the Sorting, and far too busy scheming how to convince Millie to lend him the latest Gwenog Jones book. At long last, the line of first years dwindled down to three. 

“Slughorn, Elsie!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Thompson, Nigel!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Vance, Elvira!”  
“RAVENCLAW!” 

Professor McGonagall made her way back to her seat, and the Headmaster stood. “Welcome back to another wonderful year at Hogwarts. Our staff has several surprises in store for you this year, but I’m afraid those announcements will have to wait until after the feast. For now, I will limit my comments to a few words of wisdom from my good friend and colleague Nicolas Flamel: ‘ You must learn to question everything. To wait before moving, to look before stepping, and to observe everything.’” Dumbledore sat down, and immediately the tables were groaning with food. 

Harry turned to Ron. “What do you think he means by ‘several surprises?’” 

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. We’ll find out soon enough. Pass the potatoes, would you?” 

Harry passed them, although not before taking a large dollop for himself. The feast seemed to drag on now that there were mysterious surprises in store. 

When the main courses cleared away, Harry helped himself to a generous slice of treacle tart as conversation turned once again towards Quidditch. Harry had finally convinced Higgs to have a full team of reserves instead of just a few reserve players for each position when the last of the desserts disappeared and the Headmaster stood once more. 

“Now that we are all fed and watered, I have several important announcements to make,” Dumbledore began. “Firstly, there will be no Inter-House Quidditch tournament this year.” 

Commotion erupted in the Great Hall, and Harry looked at Ron in abject horror.  “What does he mean, no Quidditch?” 

Ron’s brow furrowed. “I dunno. Doesn’t seem like he’s joking, either…” 

Dumbledore set off several firecrackers out of his wand to regain silence.  “Secondly, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard Tournament this year.”

Commotion reigned once more, and Hermione leaned across the table. “Is he barmy? The tournament hasn’t been held since 1792 after a cockatrice mauled all three school Heads.” 

Dumbledore set off more firecrackers, and the Great Hall quieted down once more. “For those of you who are unaware, the Triwizard Tournament is a friendly competition between three of the oldest European wizarding schools: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang.”

“Olympus is older,” Hermione muttered. 

“Unfortunately,” Dumbledore continued, “the tournament has been discontinued since a particularly unfortunate incident in 1792 involving a cockatrice. Recent negotiation with the respective Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have led to a revival of the tournament along with several adjustments to bring it into the twentieth century as well as avoid high mortality rates. In two weeks’ time, delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will arrive at Hogwarts, and they will be lodged in the East Wing. I fully expect you to extend them every courtesy, as they will not only have the opportunity to participate in the Triwizard Tournament, but also join our classes.

“Both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will bring several of their professors who will guest-instruct classes to offer you new and interesting perspectives. Now, I am certain you all are quite curious about the logistics of the tournament. In the past, only one champion of any age has been allowed for each school, which not only reduced the number of students eligible to participate but also pit less-experienced students against challenges they were not equipped to face, which greatly contributed to the fatality rate.

“For this reason, the Triwizard committee has decided to divide the tournament into three age brackets: third and fourth year students; fifth and sixth year students; and students who are of age. This will allow for three champions per school with one in each bracket.

“For all those not involved in the Triwizard Tournament, we will have other opportunities to foster international competition and cooperation, which includes a Quidditch tournament, a chess tournament, and a dueling tournament.” 

A buzz of curiosity filled the Hall. 

“Madam Hooch will hold an informational meeting about the Quidditch tournament once Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive. Those interested in participating in the Inter-School Chess tournament should speak to Barclay Urquhart, Palin Patil, or Aoife Moran. Professor Runcorn is seeking students with dueling experience to assist with running the dueling tournament. If you are interested, speak to him during his office hours, which are posted on your common room notice boards.

“Before we get into our annual announcements, I would like everyone to extend a warm welcome to our new first and second year Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, veteran Auror Alastor Moody.” 

A grizzled wizard stood up and glared at them. Several students clapped nervously, but stopped once they realized they were the only ones. 

“Professor Moody is highly experienced, and is an excellent resource for anyone interested in the Auror program. Now, for our annual announcements, Mr. Filch would like me to remind you that eight new items have been added to the forbidden items list, which can be found on his office door…”

Harry tuned out the rest of Dumbledore’s announcements as his mind spun. This year certainly wouldn’t be dull.

 


	5. The Middleman

# 

_ Quarters of Severus Prince _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 31 August 1994 _

 

“You really do have two different faces, you know.” 

Severus froze, half-way through rinsing the vaguely eucalyptus scented brewers’ wax from his hair. Aurora was leaning against the doorframe, eyeing him thoughtfully. 

Severus pulled his head out of the sink, hair dripping. “What?” 

“You have two different faces.”

Severus straightened, jabbing his wand at his hair to dry it. “I heard you the first time. What do you mean?” 

Aurora shifted. “You look different when you dress as Lord Prince.” 

“I do wear different robes. It’s not as if I would brew in Wizengamot attire.” 

“Oh, stop being willfully obtuse.” 

Severus frowned. 

“Your entire countenance is different as Lord Prince, and I think you know that!” 

Severus finished tying his hair back. “I quite honestly have no idea what you’re going on about.” 

“I think you do!”

“Stop talking in circles, Merlin damn it!” 

They stared at each other for a moment, Severus’ temper flaring unexpectedly. 

“Sorry,” he muttered uncomfortably. 

“It’s fine. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Severus studied his socks for a heartbeat. “I didn’t meant to shout.” 

“It’s  _ fine _ .” 

Severus sighed. “It’s just been...stressful lately.” 

“And the school year has just started.”

“Bloody hell, don’t remind me.”

“So, where are you going, all dressed up?” Aurora asked, tactfully letting the earlier matter drop. 

“I have a meeting with Albus.” 

“What does he want?” 

Severus shook his head. “Could be anything,” he said, purposely avoiding the question. 

“Severus…” 

“Please don’t push it.” 

Aurora was taken aback. “Severus...I thought we were past that.” 

Severus swallowed. “Listen...there’s some...topics…I simply cannot speak of, or share with another living soul. We are together, you and I, but there are some things I must do on my own.” 

Aurora looked hurt. “I --” 

“We can talk later.” Severus straightened his robes. “I really must get going unless I wish

to be late.”  With that, he brushed passed Aurora, robes swirling in his wake as his emotions raged in his chest. He desperately wanted to confide in her, to finally come clean, to have her fully understand his situation and to stop needing to hold back. 

Unfortunately, that would forever remain a pipe dream. He would never be able to trust another person enough to fully disclose his past, and there was enough that he’d done wrong that Aurora likely would never speak to him again. 

Severus paused for a heartbeat, disgusted with his own selfishness. He was a pitiful excuse for a wizard, and a pathetic excuse of a man. His father would be pleased, Severus supposed, with his duplicity.  He’d be the only one, and he was two meters underground. Not that Severus cared, of course. He’d been happy when Tobias died; the muggle had been a weight around his neck and a blight on his life. 

Severus shook his head to clear it, and continued on to the Headmaster’s office. Visits to the Headmaster were, at best, a tedious discussion about the students, and, at worst, an interrogation about the Death Eater’s activities. Given that it was the evening of the first day of school, Severus was rather hoping for the former, especially since he had not notified the Headmaster of the Dark Lord’s return. Morally, he knew he ought to have told the Headmaster the night of the resurrection -- nay, as soon as he had been contacted to brew the loathsome potions -- but he simply had not done it, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. One voice inside him screamed that it was due to cowardice, and that Severus didn’t have the chops to continuing spying. Another shouted that it was selfishness, and Severus couldn’t bear to lift a finger for the greater good. The deepest part of him, however, knew it could be attributed to pure tiredness. 

Severus was only thirty-four, but he felt decades older. It wasn’t exactly a concept he could put into words, and could only be described by the subtle aches in his bones as the weather grew cold, the bouts of ennui that gripped him, and the constant feeling of worthlessness that circled him. If another war broke out, it wasn’t a question of if he had the skills to survive, because he knew it was possible. Rather, it was whether he could summon to the will to carry on, to fight the good fight, and continue on between a literal Charybdis and Scylla. 

If he chose to inform Albus, he would be risking his existence each day by lying to the Dark Lord, and the situation would be further complicated by his position of Lord Prince. If he didn’t inform Albus, the Dark Lord would quietly take over Wizarding Britain, and the entire nation would be doomed. 

Everything was different this time around; Severus could feel it deep within the center of his being. The Dark Lord was surprisingly lucid for someone who had spent years as a semi-corporeal being. He was also disturbingly well-informed, and he and Lucius were far more familiar. 

There was also the not-so pleasant matter of Thomas Gaunt. When the man had initially risen to political importance, Severus had been suspicious, but more focussed on other aspects of his life. Severus hadn’t held a seat in the House of Lords yet, and the information had been concerning, but largely irrelevant. Now that he’d actually met Gaunt, it was a very different story. If old  _ Daily Prophet _ photos and Severus’ own memory served him correctly, Thomas Gaunt looked disturbingly similar to the young Dark Lord, a fact that could not be chalked up to simple coincidence. Severus was fairly certain that the Dark Lord had never had a son, and the wizard was far too suspicious to trust a sibling, which, to Severus’ knowledge, he didn’t have.

It was a perplexing problem with unsettling implications. It was a given that Dark magic was at play, and Severus almost didn’t want to know the secret behind Thomas Gaunt. 

Severus stopped abruptly, having reached the gargoyle. After a muttered “Fizzing Whizbee,” the gargoyle slid aside, and Severus ascended the stairs, still undecided on what he would tell the Headmaster. Severus had scarcely raised his hand to knock when Albus’ voice sounded from within.

“You may enter.” 

Severus crossed the threshold, brushing aside the feeling of unease that settled on his shoulders. “Good evening, Headmaster.” 

“Good evening, Severus. Tea? Sherbet lemon?” 

“No, thank you.” 

Albus deftly stirred three lumps of sugar into his own tea. “As you wish.”  They sat in silence for a moment as Albus sipped his tea and Severus situated himself on his chair. “Tell me, Severus, how are matters on your side?” 

“The first year Slytherins are settling in nicely,” Severus said, tacitly ignoring the implied question. “And at least a quarter of the upper years have already come to my office in a panic over the latest Defense appointment. Oddly enough, they seem convinced that because Moody violently attacked and incarcerated their parents and cousins, he would extend a similar courtesy to them in the classroom.” 

Albus looked pained. “I have made it quite clear to him that students must not be blamed for the crimes of their parents.” 

“Hmmph. Try telling  _ my _ students that. You’re lucky Bartemius Crouch Jr. never reproduced otherwise you’d have half of Hufflepuff crying too.” 

“Severus!” Albus chided. 

“You know it’s true,” Severus said darkly. “And you know the children have a right to be afraid of Moody. He’s not particularly stable, even at the best of times.” 

“I will have Minerva speak with him again. Now, Severus, tell me, how are matters progressing in the Wizengamot?” 

“Tediously. Last session did not manage to finish the preliminary Ascension debate, so it will be continue when we re-convene around Mabon. Lucius is attempting to push a new piece of legislation regulating muggleborn activities, and Lord Gaunt has kept surprisingly mum.”   

“Regarding what?”

“I’m not certain,” Severus half-lied. “I get the feeling he’s attempting to marshal support.”

“In favor of the Ascension of Rookwood and Runcorn?” 

“No. Runcorn is a shoe-in, and he only has to worry about Marchbanks if the Progressives stop getting their panties in a twist about Ogden not receiving a nomination. Something is not right about Thomas Gaunt, and I feel I will soon understand what secret he harbors.” 

Albus looked pensive. “Could it be related to Voldemort?” 

Severus started slightly, then ruthlessly clamped down on his emotions. “Unlikely.” 

“You know his genealogy as well as I do, Severus, and you know that he has no siblings, and, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, bore no children. Yet, Thomas Gaunt is a legitimate heir to the Gaunt seat.” 

“He could be a cousin.” 

Albus shook his head. “Impossible. The timeline wouldn’t add up.” 

“Mm.” 

“Have you heard any news in regards to Voldemort?” 

Severus took a breath to steady himself, still hanging in balance between informing Albus and telling a falsehood. “Yes.” 

“And?”

“The Dark Lord has returned.” 

“When?”

“July.” 

Albus’ eyes flashed. “And you chose to wait until now to inform me because…?” 

Severus didn’t have a good answer. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Severus. You, of all wizards, should understand the importance.” 

Severus remained silent. 

“Were you planning on informing me?” 

Severus raised his head. “I was contemplating it.” 

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and when Albus spoke again, Severus could hear the edge of danger in his voice. “You were...contemplating...it.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“Such a decision could, once again, jeopardize my very existence. I’ve grown rather attached to being alive, and not in an excessive amount of pain or duress.” 

It was the wrong thing to say. Albus leaned forward, eyes blazing. “You, of all wizards, should understand that preventing a second rise of Voldemort is more important than your own personal well-being.” 

“Perhaps if you paid more attention to my counsel, I would be more willing to risk my life for you and yours,” Severus bit out. 

Albus leaned back, arms crossed. “I beg your pardon.” 

“If you truly were dedicated to defeating the Dark Lord, you would have focussed heavily on destroying his allies. Instead of pandering to the Progressives, you should have centered your efforts on the Neutral-Traditionalists.You also should have attempted to bring the House of Lords and the House of Commons into some semblance of a power balance instead of leaving the House of Commons as a pitiful consolation prize for the non-noble members of our society! That, not pandering to a party most regard as imbecilic, would have given your position more strength.

“And then, on a completely different side of the problem, there’s the bloody Triwizard tournament. If you were worried about the Blood Purists and Traditionalists gaining power, why would you allow Durmstrang to set foot on our soil? How is that under any circumstance a logical, rational decision?” 

“Are you quite done?”

“Yes.”

“I scarcely feel I need to defend my actions to you; however, I will explain in hopes that you may finally comprehend them. The Progressives are not as misguided as you believe they are, as they are the only party with representation on the House of Lords that pushes for further reforms granting rights to muggleborns. It is important to support all members of our society, especially those who are the most vulnerable, and provide them with the protection and guidance they need to thrive. As for the wide governmental reform you suggested, both you and I know that is not feasible. 

“Now, for the matter of the Triwizard Tournament. While I certainly did support the idea, I was not ultimately responsible for bringing it to Wizarding Britain. Furthermore, who is to say that the students from Durmstrang will not learn from our students?” 

“And how likely is that?” Severus sneered. “They’ll take one look at Creevey with his obnoxious camera, and another look at Malfoy with his scads of Galleons, and it doesn’t take Merlin to figure out with whom they will prefer to spend their time.” 

“Severus, be optimistic!” 

Severus stood. “Headmaster, we established a long time ago that I am anything but an optimist. I am a selfish and bitter man, and I do not think I will be able to continuing passing information this war. Good evening.” With that, Severus gathered his robes around him, and swept out of the door, the door closing hollowly behind him. 

On the other side of the door, Albus Dumbledore sat silently with an aura of sadness around him. “Oh, Severus,” he said quietly, “it’s only those among us who claim to be selfish and bitter who seldom are.” 


	6. Hermione Rising

# 

_ Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 1 September 1994 _

 

“Welcome,” Professor Scrimgeour said, hands clasped before him, “to fourth year Defense Against the Dark Arts. Last year, we thoroughly covered magical creatures, and common defenses against them. This year will have a significantly more rigorous curriculum focussed on both offensive and defensive magic both to prepare you for your O.W.L. year and for the upcoming dueling tournament.” 

A murmur of interest passed through the class.

Professor Scrimgeour flicked his wand, sending copies of the syllabus onto each student’s desk.  “As you see on the syllabus, we have several guest lectures this year. Professor Runcorn will hold several dueling practices during our class time, and will also hold several optional sessions outside of class for those interested in furthering their dueling skills. If you are interested in competing this spring, I highly recommend attending these as both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have established dueling clubs.” 

Ron sat up straighter in his chair. 

“Professor Moody will also give a talk about the Auror corps and speak to some of his experiences out in the field. If you need to be excused from Professor Moody’s lecture for any reason, please set up a meeting with me during office hours and we will determine a reasonable makeup assignment.” 

Ron mentally winced. A significant portion of the Slytherin fourth years had family who’d been put in Azkaban by Moody, and Ron fully expected at least half of the class to be absent whenever Moody guest-lectured. 

“Today, instead of discussing the syllabus, which all of you should be capable of reading on your own time, we will conduct a skills evaluation. As some of you may already be aware, the International Dueling League, or IDL, has six divisions of dueling: Bantam, Pixie, Mamba, Hippogriff, Sphinx, and Manticore. While the dueling tournament here will be done by school year, we will use the IDL’s standards in today’s class. Most of you will fall into the Pixie category, but some may be in either the Bantam or Mamba category depending on how much outside training you’ve received as well as your natural aptitude for the sport.” 

Ron ran some quick mental calculations. While he wasn’t the best in their year in Defense -- that honor fell squarely to Hermione, then to Harry who had an indescribable knack for the subject -- he could certainly hold his own against the rest of the Slytherins, although some of the Ravenclaws consistently outperformed him. Malfoy also was disappointingly competent in the class, and could be good if he did his homework earlier instead of strutting around the Slytherin common room. 

“According to IDL rules,” Professor Scrimgeour continued, “an individual can move into a higher division either from passing a skills test or from winning a certain number of matches within their division. The exact details vary slightly based on whether you subscribe to the Transylvanian rules or the Hohenzollern-Hechingen rules. Of course, there are other styles of dueling, most notably those who follow the standards laid down by ancient Mesopotamian wizards. But I digress. 

“Today, I will assess your knowledge of basic spellwork, and, if time permits, we will also hold practice duels. If everyone could come to the front of the classroom, and line up across the room…” 

There was a great scraping as everyone pushed back their chairs and made their way to the front of the room. Ron ended up standing between Harry and Theo, and was grateful that he’d be far away from Crabbe and Goyle’s attempts at casting as well as Pansy’s frequent whinging. 

Professor Scrimgeour flicked his wand, and a row of dummies positioned themselves in front of each student. “Please listen closely. I will name a spell, and you will have up to a count of three to perform the spell on the dummy in front of you. Missing the dummy, or miscasting the spell, will result in automatic disqualification. Since most of you should be unfamiliar with this format, the first three spells will be basic material from second and third year defense. After that, I will ask you to return to your desk if you fail to properly cast a spell. Does everyone understand?” 

There was a chorus of ‘yeses’ and nodded heads. 

“Wands at the ready…”

Ron drew his wand, and grasped it carefully, ensuring to grip it tight enough that it wouldn’t fall out of his hand, but lightly enough so that it could move fluidly through the air. 

“Cast the Blindfolding Spell.” 

“ _ Obscuro! _ ” 

“Dancing Jinx.”

“ _ Tarantallegra!”  _

“Leg-Locking Curse.”

“ _ Locomotor Mortis! _ ” 

Professor Scrimgeour nodded in approval. “Good work. Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, you need to work more on the precision of your movements and your aim. Miss Davis, make sure you finish your movements sharply. Miss Bulstrode, hold your wand more lightly; it will not run away from you.” 

Millie flushed slightly. 

“Miss Parkinson, put more force into your wand movements; your wandarm should not resemble a limp noodle. Everyone else, your work is satisfactory thus far. The first part of the evaluation will be the same as what we just did, only I will do a set of five spells instead of three. After the fifth spell is cast, those who did not perform satisfactorily will be asked to return to their seats. Wands at the ready…” 

Ron got in the ready position once again, heart pounding in his chest. 

“Body-Binding Curse.”

“ _ Petrificus Totalus! _ ”

“Stinging Hex.” 

“ _ Ictus! _ ”

“Tripping Jinx.” 

“ _ Conruo!” _

“Cheering Charm.” 

“ _ Es Laetus! _ ” 

“Disarming Charm.” 

“ _ Expelliarmus! _ ” 

Ron stood, slightly breathless, as Scrimgeour paced in front of them. “If you do not know a spell, kindly do not attempt to cast it.” 

Goyle looked guilty.

“Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, Miss Parkinson and Miss Davis, kindly take your seats. I would recommend you all revist the disarming charm. Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle, please see me after class or during my office hours.” 

The group walked back to their seats, and Tracy at least looked embarrassed at her shoddy wandwork. 

“Wands at the ready…”

Professor Scrimgeour rattled off another series of spells, ending with a Shield Charm. While Ron felt his Shield Charm was passable, it wasn’t nearly as good as Harry’s, which had manifested as solid-looking pearly sphere, whereas Ron’s had a slight waver to it. 

“Mr. Zabini, Miss Greengrass, Miss Bulstrode, you may be seated. Mr. Weasley, your Shield Charm barely made the standard. For future reference, if you put more power into the final flick of your wand while strongly focusing on a sense of self-protection, your shield will be more uniform. That goes for you as well, Miss Moon. 

“Our next set of spells will move into the fourth year skillset. Wands at the ready…” 

Ron grimaced in anticipation. While he had skimmed the textbook, he hadn’t extensively studied any of the spells. He was fairly certain Malfoy and Nott had private tutoring over the summer, and Hermione of course was kilometers ahead of everyone else. Harry had an undeniable knack for picking up spells, although he was either very good at them, or impressively bad. There didn’t seem to be much of a middle ground. 

Professor Scrimgeour snapped out five curses and hexes, all of which Ron recognized, although his Impediment Jinx was rather sad. He found some solace in the fact that Harry’s Impediment Jinx was also terrible, and Nott’s missed the dummy completely. 

“Mr. Weasley, Mr. Nott, Mr. Potter, and Miss Moon, you may return to your seats. An impressive effort on all your parts, especially considering you have not officially learned any of these spells.” 

Ron took his seat, watching Hermione and Malfoy with a degree of anticipation. He wasn’t surprised that Malfoy was competent, but he hadn’t expected him to be on a similar level as Hermione. Ron quietly vowed to work harder outside of class to ensure that Malfoy never outperformed him again. 

“Miss Granger, and Mr. Malfoy, wands at the ready…” 

Professor Scrimgeour called out a sequence of spells, all of which Hermione performed without even the slightest degree of hesitation. Malfoy paused before doing several of the jinxes, but did surprisingly well on the ones he cast. “Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy, although your Flocking Charm was poorly cast, and you exceeded the time limit on two of the other spells. Five points to Slytherin for a job well done. You may take your seat.

“Miss Granger, you successfully cast the entire set. If you could get in the ready position…” 

Hermione stood, wand extended in front of her, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Professor Scrimgeour barked out the spells at a slightly faster rate, and Hermione easily cast each of them. Instead of stopping after five spells, Scrimgeour continued ruthlessly onwards, shouting the spells quicker and quicker. Hermione’s wand snapped precisely through each movement, and she showed no hesitation until the eleventh spell, which Ron didn’t even recognize. She wavered for a moment, then cast the spell successfully. 

Scrimgeour stopped. “Very impressive work, Miss Granger. Five points to Slytherin.” 

Hermione nodded in acknowledgement.  

“Have you been coached in dueling before?”

“Yes, but not formally.” 

“Did you train over the summer?” 

“No sir.” 

“Interesting. You may take your seat.” 

Hermione sat down with a grimace. Ron looked over. “That was bloody incredible.” 

“Thanks.” 

Professor Scrimgeour checked his pocket watch. “Given that we only have ten minutes remaining in class, I will let you leave early. Miss Granger, if you could stay for a moment…” 

Ron quickly packed up his bag, and followed Harry into the hallway. 

“D’you think Hermione’s all right?” Harry asked. 

Ron shrugged, lifting his book bag into a more secure position on his shoulder. “Probably. Scrimgeour likely just wants to know why she’s so bloody good.” 

“I mean, she did beat out the rest of the class.” 

“Yeah, and by knowing spells that haven’t even been taught yet. I read through the textbook, and I didn’t even recognize some of the ones Scrimgeour asked her to do.” 

Harry gave a low whistle. “She really did take things seriously after the whole...you know.” 

Ron grimaced. The attack on Hermione the previous year had been horrific. Ron vividly remembered standing in the Hospital Wing as Hermione lay in a bed with lacerations across her face. Madam Pomfrey had healed them perfectly, of course, but it’d still been incredibly unsettling. Ron didn’t think he’d ever seen Professor Prince as angry as he was after the attack. While Ron’s anger typically ran hot, Professor Prince’s was glacial. The way he’d stared down the common room and demanded if anyone had known about Atlas Carrow’s planned attack on Hermione still sent shivers down Ron’s spine. In Ron’s opinion, Carrow and his cronies should have been expelled, but certain bribes presumably passed into the Board of Governors had let them slip by with inordinate amounts of detention, and a mere week of suspension for Carrow. It made Ron furious, just thinking about it. 

“I know. It was really hard on her, even though the entire House was brassed off at Carrow for making everyone look like stupid bigots. It’s hard to understand what it’s like for her, being the only muggleborn in Slytherin, and missing out on a lot of the traditions that most wizards know.” 

“Hey, I was muggle-raised!” Harry objected. 

“Yeah, but you’re Boy-Who-Lived and the heir to an Ancient House. You get treated quite a bit differently than the rest of us.” 

“Don’t I know about that,” Harry said, sounding surprisingly bitter. “I wish...I wish sometimes that I wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived, or a Potter. I wish I could be just Harry, play Quidditch, and not worry about everyone pretending to be my friend or writing articles in the gossip column of the  _ Daily Prophet _ over what flavor of ice cream I got at Fortescue’s.” 

“I think everyone wishes they could be someone else sometimes,” Ron said tentatively, “but we’ve got to make the best of what we’ve got, right?” 

Harry nodded. “With any luck, there’ll be some mega celebrity who comes with Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, and people won’t be bothered with me because they’ll be too busy ogling whoever it is Beauxbatons or Durmstrang brings.

“Here’s to hoping.” 

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Ron looked back to see Hermione hurrying down the hallway. 

“What did Scrimgeour want?” Harry asked curiously. 

“Huh? Oh, nothing much. He just wanted to make sure that I’d be planning on participating in the dueling tournament, and that I’d get some good practice in beforehand. If I keep improving, he thinks I could win our age bracket,” Hermione said, voice bright. 

Ron thought Hermione’s voice sounded a bit too bright, and that it was a bit higher than usual, but he kept it to himself. If Scrimgeour had been quizzing Hermione on exactly how she knew all of those spells, it really wasn’t his business to know.


	7. Changing Times

# 

_ Adelin Meeting Room _

_ Ministry of Magic, London _

_ 8 September 1994 _

The problem with board meetings, in Amelia’s opinion, was that they were rather dull. A small and selfish part of her regretted forcing her way onto the committee -- the meetings were long, and full of semantics. However, each time one of Gaunt’s coterie spoke, Amelia’s purpose was reaffirmed. After all, it certainly wouldn’t suit for the primary schools to turn into a Traditionalist breeding ground, and it was her duty to ensure that all students, regardless of blood status, received a fair and equal education. 

Amelia turned her attention back to the presentation the Rowle brothers were giving. The Honorable House of Rowle had a less than glorious reputation that had been neatly swept under the rug after the failed uprising of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The current Lord Rowle, Erik Rowle, had been rumored to be a Death Eater, and his heir and eldest son, Thorfinn, had similar inclinations. Sten, the second son, had been in Hogwarts during the height of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s power, but Amelia doubted he’d be any different than his father and older brother.  

Both brothers now taught; Thorfinn taught the Runic Scripts at the London Academy of Magic while Sten instructed History of Magic at the Liverpool Magical Primary. While both Rowles were qualified for their jobs, Amelia couldn’t help but wonder how much influence Lord Gaunt had exerted to ensure that his supporters were well-placed. Her theory certainly wasn’t hurt by the fact that the Primary School Director Board was headed by Narcissa Malfoy, the wife of one of Gaunt’s staunchest allies. Amelia had made her way onto the board via a myriad of convenient coincidences. Each school and each political party was allotted one representative. Amelia had been chosen to represent the interests of the Neutral-Traditionalists because she not only had experience teaching as a former Auror instructor, but also had a child in Hogwarts. 

Narcissa Malfoy represented the interests of the Blood-Purist sect in addition to her duties as board director. Athena Greengrass was the Traditionalists representative, and Percy Weasley, oddly enough, had been chosen to represent the Progressives. Amelia thought that was a rather odd choice on the behalf of the Progressive party, as Percy leaned far closer to Neutral-Traditionalist, but he did have the added clout of Lord Prewett as well as an outstanding academic record. The Modernists, thankfully, had not been given a seat on the board.

“School excursions,” Thorfinn Rowle was saying, “Not only provide exciting educational opportunities for those who were not raised in Wizarding society, but also provide opportunities to connect what is learned in the classroom to real-world applications. As a Runic Scripts instructor, I often see students struggling to see why Runes are relevant to their daily lives. Excursions to Stonehenge, warding sites, and hillforts help them understand the impact Runes had not only in the past, but also in the present.

“Unfortunately, such excursions are not included in the school’s budget and require extra fees. Some parents make the decision not to send their child on an excursion, and the children most affected by this are those from non-magical households.”

Sten Rowle stepped forward. “To ameliorate this problem, we propose two solutions for discussion. First, to increase the primary school budget to allow for a per capita allowance for excursions, and second, to add school fees.” 

The Rowle brothers returned to their seats.

Narcissa Malfoy smiled in acknowledgement, but the gesture certainly didn’t reach her eyes. “The floor is now open for discussion. McGonagall.” 

The Scottish wizard nodded. “Yes. I certainly agree with some of the points Thorfinn and Sten have made. We have also seen a decrease in school excursion attendance for students from non-magical households as well as from less advantaged homes. While I do think a small per student stipend -- perhaps on the scale of three Galleons per student -- would be beneficial, especially to have in reserve for less-advantaged students, I do not think it is the end all be all solution. After speaking with some of the halfblood and muggleborn faculty members, I learned that muggle school children regularly go on excursions to places of great cultural and historical importance. By rephrasing how we propose our school excursions to the muggle parents, we can help increase attendance without the need to spend more Galleons.”   
“Thank you. Moody.” 

Saoirse Moody stood, and Amelia sent a silent prayer to the gods above that Saoirse wasn’t as insane as her great-uncle. 

“I agree with Graeme’s sentiments, and would like to add that adding school fees would likely lead to decreased enrollment, which certainly would impede our goals. Having a small stipend per student would be beneficial, particularly given the Floo and Portkey fees we need to pay for most of the school excursions. My main concern with that solution is where we would source the Galleons.”  

“Thank you. Greengrass.” 

Debate continued over the exact Galleon amount that should be budgeted per students, as well as whether or not the school excursions should be mandatory. Percy Weasley had several strong feelings about that, and had pointed out that if a family struggled to keep food on the table, it was unlikely they could afford extra luxuries like school excursions. More than one committee member had difficulty making eye contact with Percy after that, and it hit Amelia especially hard. Molly and Arthur had been two years ahead of her in Hogwarts, and Amelia remembered how vibrant Molly had been. All of Molly’s relationships had been on her own terms, and if her words weren’t sharp enough to keep unwanted suitors away, her wand was. 

After the death of her brothers, Molly had leaned heavily on Arthur, who’d also been mourning the loss of his siblings. Then, several years later, when everything finally seemed to be going well, Arthur passed, which sent Molly into a depressive spiral. Amelia had seen Molly a handful of times since, and the Weasley matriarch appeared to have aged well beyond her years.

Even after the board meeting adjourned, Amelia couldn’t stop thinking about the war. Amelia had lost her parents, both her brothers, and her sister-in-law to Death Eaters, and there were very few witches and wizards who hadn’t lost a family member. 

It was with a heavy heart that Amelia headed to her second meeting of the day. She’d been surprised when Rufus initially owled her to request a meeting. The Chief Auror was highly competent, and with almost five years of experience, he scarcely met with her outside of departmental meetings. 

Amelia had good instincts, and her instincts were screaming with wild abandon. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation. Amelia knocked lightly on Rufus’ office door.

“Come in.” 

Amelia entered the office and shut the door behind her. The telltale chill of privacy wards washed over her, and Amelia took a seat. “Good afternoon, Rufus.”

“Good afternoon, Amelia.” Light bags sat under Rufus’ eyes, and the steaming mug of tea in front of him spoke volumes about his day. “I called this meeting because I wanted to discuss several concerns with you.” 

Amelia nodded. “It caught me a bit off guard.” 

“Mm. It goes without saying that nothing leaves this room?” 

“Of course.” 

Rufus exhaled sharply. “Good. Because nothing I am about to say is particularly decorous or professional, especially given my position as Chief Auror. I am deeply,  _ deeply _ concerned about our current political situation.” 

Amelia’s heart leapt into her throat. “Do continue.” 

“I’ve heard about the latest Ascension debate,” Rufus said, thumb fiddling with the handle of his mug, “Runcorn’s potential Ascendancy doesn’t bother me too much… it’s the rumors I’ve been hearing about Rookwood that do.” Rufus’ hand stilled. “Is it true that Rookwood is likely to Ascend over Marchbanks, and that the vote will go through?” 

Amelia swallowed. “Yes.” 

Rufus swore quietly. “That’s what I was worried about. You see, I’m not only concerned about the number of recent graduates from the Auror Academy, but also their ability to perform in combat.” 

“You’ve lost me. I’m not getting the link between Ascendency and war.” 

Rufus’ fingers drummed out a quick rhythm on the edge of his desk. “Look, Amelia, you are free to call me paranoid, but I’m very good at seeing patterns.” 

Amelia nodded. Rufus had the highest number of cold cases cracked next to Alastor Moody, and his ability to leap from point A to point O, along with his leadership skills, were why he had been appointed Chief Auror. 

“In 1972, during the height of the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, there was a surge in the Blood Purist and Traditionalist power base.” Rufus paused. “I fear it will happen again.” 

Amelia felt rather lightheaded. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“No. But something similar. I trust my instincts, Amelia, and my instincts say to be ready. There’s too many of His former supporters still at large, even if they were allegedly innocent. Now, I know it’s not professional or proper for me to say that, but it’s the truth. They’ve got their hands in everything now, if you look carefully enough...seats in the House of Lords, and the House of Commons if you think that even matters. Seats on school boards, and seats next to Fudge, whispering in his ear. There’s something brewing, and say what you will, but I don’t trust it.” 

Amelia’s head spun. “Rufus...I think you’re right…” 

“I realize it’s a lot of conjecture, but I’m glad you believe me.” 

“No, it’s that there’s another factor that supports your theory that you haven’t even considered yet. In fact, most people wouldn’t consider it, because they don’t know about it. Merlin, how could I have been so stupid?” 

Rufus made a go-on gesture. 

“The wards. The Irish wards.” 

“You’re going to have to extrapolate a bit on that.”

“I pulled an old favor to get a trusted source into Ireland,” Amelia began. “I wanted her to check the ward lines, just to make sure the Irish weren’t trying to move them. All the wardstones were still in place, but the power behind them had been increased. The last time that happened was --” 

“--around 1972.”

“Yes. And not only that, but the covens are deeply unsettled. The Morholts continue to isolate themselves from the rest of the southern covens, and I have reason to believe that the Sayre Coven and the Rowan Coven are behind the change in the ward schema...although I don’t know the reason why. It could be to ensure that Britain stays out of Irish affairs, or it could be to keep certain people...in...Ireland.” 

“Do you think there could be collaboration between some of the Irish and certain wizards in Britain?” 

“By Hretha, I would hope not.”

“But you cannot definitively rule it out.” 

“Yes.” 

Rufus looked away.

“There’s one other thing I ought to tell you, before I forget.” 

“About the Irish?”

“About the Morholt Coven.” 

Rufus paled. 

“Do you remember the explosion that made the news in 1990? Happened around June?” 

“Yes. It was the one that the Irish blamed on the Aos Sídhe, though any fool knew the Aos Sídhe would never cause that type of backlash.” 

“I was informed that it was the Morholts. Specifically, a ritual performed in Ciorcal na cinn Ársa by three Morholt witches.” 

“And it rebounded that badly. By Frey and the mighty gods above, what the name of Merlin were they doing?” 

“My source wasn’t certain, but likely a bastardization of one of the Olde Rituals. Given the witches who went missing, I would guess it was one that channeled the energy of the Maid, the Mother, and the Crone.” 

The remaining color drained from Rufus’ face.

“The three Morholt witches perished during the ritual, and Ciorcal na cinn Ársa scarcely contained the rebound.” 

“And the three Morholt witches...they were one the ones fulfilling the roles of the Maid, the Mother and the Crone?” 

“Again, my source was not certain,” Amelia said slowly, regretting her lack of information and hesitance in sharing it. “But there were several things that were clear in the aftermath of the ritual: the Morholt witches attempted to corrupt the ritual to suit some other purpose, the ritual backfired horrifically, and there were four witches in Ciorcal na cinn Ársa.” 

“Four?” Rufus checked.

“Four. Three Morholts, and one other.” 

“And does anyone know what happened to this mystery witch?”

Amelia shook her head. “No. But there’s no way she could have escaped the ritual unscathed.” 


	8. New Rivals, Old Friends

# 

_ Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 6 September 1994 _

Harry swung his feet idly at his desk as he worked through a veritable mountain of homework. Even though the term had scarcely started, the teachers had already begun to pile on work. Harry had been getting strange dreams, too, but he could never seem to remember them when he woke up. It was quite bizarre, and Harry had the niggling feeling he was missing something important. 

Frowning, Harry put the finishing touches on his essay detailing the differences between cats and Kneazles before moving on to the rest of his homework. He had Professor Vance again for Charms, which meant plenty of extra reading. Hermione, of course, was a big fan of Professor Vance’s methods, but Harry wished the man was more a fan of practice rather than theory. Ancient Runes was also more difficult this year, as they would not only be delving deeper into the syntax of the runic languages they’d learned the previous year, but also learning how to apply Runes to spellcasting, which Harry found exciting. 

The fourth year Herbology professor, Professor Oleander, was regarded as the easiest professor in terms of exams, but was rather fond of handing out group projects. Harry had lucked out and been assigned Neville Longbottom as a partner, who, despite his clumsiness, was a veritable genius at Herbology. 

Despite the amount of work that Herbology had piled on with the group project, Potions and Transfiguration had taken the cake by assigning the most amount of work. Both Professor Selwyn and Professor Cornfoot insisted that O.WL.s were around the corner, a sentiment that only Hermione and a handful of Ravenclaws seemed to agree with. After Sally-Anne Perks and Wayne Hopkins from Hufflepuff had both melted their cauldrons, and Neville Longbottom had been rumored to have melted a small hole the dungeon floor, Professor Selwyn had substantially increased their workload, and even threatened to have them test their own antidotes if they didn’t improve enough by the end of the month. 

Harry stretched luxuriously, and proceeded to slog through several Ancient Runes translations before Ron stepped in. 

“Dinner, Harry?” 

“Yeah. Just let me finish this…” Harry squinted at the runes, and polished off his last answer. “All right, I’m ready.” 

“Were you doing the Runes homework?” Ron asked as they fell into step. 

Harry nodded. “It’s not too bad, really.” 

“Thank Merlin. I haven’t even started mine -- Professor Boyet loaded us up with an absurd amount of Arithmancy homework.” 

“In that case, I’ve never been more glad that I haven’t taken Arithmancy.” 

“Eh, I’m glad I did. It’s really interesting, even if it is a lot of work.” 

Harry elbowed Ron. “You’re starting to sound like Hermione!” 

Ron elbowed him back. “Oh, shut up.” 

Harry sniggered, and they made their way into the Great Hall. Dinner, as usual, was delicious, and Harry ate far too much treacle tart afterwards. 

Professor Dumbledore stood, and the Great Hall quickly fell quiet. “As some of you may already be aware, the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at six o’clock on this Friday, the 9th of September. Lessons will end half an hour early, and students will return their bags and books to their dormitories prior to assembling on the front lawn to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast. 

“Please be aware, that while the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be our competitors during the Triwizard Tournament, they will also be learning alongside us this year. They will be attending Hogwarts classes, living in the West Wing of the castle, and will form part of our Quidditch teams this year. I highly encourage each and every one of you to reach out to a student from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang and not only make them feel at home here at Hogwarts, but also seize the opportunity to learn about their background and culture.  

“Details about the Triwizard Tournament, the Quidditch tournament, and the Dueling tournament will be shared with everyone during the Welcoming Feast. Any immediate questions or concerns can be taken to a prefect or your Head of House. Thank you for your attention.” 

Professor Dumbledore returned to his seat, and a dull roar of conversation was restored in the Great Hall. 

“Do you know anyone coming?” Ron asked. 

Harry nodded absently, mind busy spinning Quidditch dreams. “Yeah, I think Stefan and his brother are coming, and so’s the lot of Malfoy’s cousins.” 

“Wait,  _ Viktor Krum _ is still in school?” 

Harry pulled out of his thoughts. “Yeah, and keep it quiet for now. He’s a bit worried about all the attention, you know. Stefan says he justs wants a relatively quiet year and to do well on his exams.”

“Well, maybe he shouldn’t have come to Britain, then,” Ron quipped.

“He didn’t have much choice,” Harry said idly, mind back on Quidditch. “Politics being what they are. He’s got a couple cousins who are right crazy about that kind of thing, and Viktor doesn’t want any of them to get brassed off.”  

Ron looked pensive. “Huh.” 

“Mmhmm. I’m heading back to our room. I gotta finish the Runes homework and maybe get in some extra practice for Defense. I need to figure out how to beat Malfoy.” 

The rest of the week seemed to fly by, as assignments were due and Wizarding Studies tried to cram last minute etiquette lessons into everyone’s heads. Before Harry knew it, they’d escaped Potions early, and were lining up in front of the castle. The professors walked up and down the lines of students, enforcing order and decorum. Harry watch Professor McGonagall snap at poor Neville Longbottom, whose tie had been crooked, and at the Gryffindor Patil twin, who had a large glittery butterfly in her hair. 

Professor Prince made the same rounds through the Slytherins, stopping in front of Harry’s group. “Really, Potter, you could have at least done something to make your hair look halfway presentable.” 

Harry grimaced. “Sorry, professor.” 

Prince moved on, and Harry was certain he’d seen the man roll his eyes. 

“It’s nearly six o’clock,” Ron said, checking his watch and squinting into the dusky evening. “How do you think they’re arriving? I don’t reckon they’d take the train.” 

“A Portkey, maybe?” Harry suggested. “It’s not like they can Apparate inside Hogwarts grounds, and we wouldn’t be outside if they were using the Floo.” 

“I doubt it,” Hermione said. “Long distance Portkeys make you feel ill, and I don’t think they’d want us gathered outside to watch them try not to vomit and fall over.” 

“Good point.” Ron rubbed his arms. “However they’re getting here, I wish they’d hurry up!”

Harry nodded, scanning the grounds for any sight of unusual activity. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang both were too far away for broomsticks to be a reasonable form of travel. Harry wondered if they were taking the European equivalent of the Knight Bus when the Headmaster called out from the back row. 

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!” 

“Where?” 

“Do you see them?” 

Students craned their necks, looking in different directions in an attempt to spot the Beauxbatons delegation. 

“There!” shouted a sixth year. “Over the Forbidden Forest!” 

Something large and round was hurtling across the deep purple sky across the Forbidden Forest, growing larger as it approached. 

“It’s a dragon!” shouted a Hufflepuff first year. 

“Don’t be stupid! Wizards can’t ride dragons!” 

“It’s blimp!” yelled Justin Finch-Fletchley. 

“No, it’s a flying house!” 

The flying whatever-it-was skimmed the treetops, and drew closer to the castle. Once the lights from the windows hit it, it was clear that while it was the size of a large house, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. A team of elephant-sized winged horses -- Harry was pretty sure they were Abraxans -- were pulling a powder-blue carriage with a crest of two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars emblazoned on each door. 

The carriage landed with a loud thud, causing Neville Longbottom to leapt backwards in surprise, squashing Barclay Urquhart’s toes. The Slytherin protested quietly, and quickly shut up when a boy in pale blue robes exited the carriage and unfolded a set of golden steps. He stepped back respectively. An enormous shoe, bigger than Harry’s old cupboard door, descended, followed by the tallest woman Harry had ever seen. If he had to guess, she couldn’t have been more than a centimeter shorter than Hagrid the Groundskeeper, who was previously the tallest -- and largest -- person he’d ever met. 

The Headmaster started to clap as he made his way through the crowd, and the students quickly followed suit. 

Dumbledore kissed the woman’s outstretched hand. “My dear Madame Maxime, I cordially welcome you to Hogwarts.” 

Madame Maxime smiled graciously. “Dumbly-door, I thank you for your welcome. I ‘ope you are well?” 

“In excellent form, I thank you.” 

“My pupils,” said Madame Maxime, gesturing behind herself. 

There were a little over a dozen students standing behind Madame Maxime, all dressed in silk blue robes. None of them were wearing cloaks, which Harry found quite foolish since Scottish weather was fairly well known. The younger students were staring up at Hogwarts in awe; the older ones looked apprehensive. 

“‘As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked. 

“Not yet,” said Dumbledore as he scanned the grounds. “He should arrive any moment. Would you prefer to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?” 

“Warm up, I think. But ze ‘orses --” 

“Our Groundskeeper will take care of them. I assure you, he is perfectly qualified.” 

Madame Maxime looked slightly skeptical until Hagrid made his way through the crowd. Idly, Harry noticed he was right regarding their respective heights. 

“Very well,” Madame Maxime said. “Be aware zat ze ‘orses drink only single-malt whiskey.” 

Hagrid nodded in acknowledgement, and Madame Maxime gestured her students forward through the crowd and into the warmth of Hogwarts. 

“I hope Durmstrang arrive soon,” Hermione said, shifting from foot to foot, “my toes are freezing.” 

They waited, shivering slightly as the moon rose over the Forbidden Forest. Some students stood watching sky, clearly anticipating another carriage, while others scanned the grounds. 

“Do you hear that?” Ron asked suddenly.

Harry strained his ears. “Yeah...sounds a bit like a vacuum cleaner…”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.” 

“Look at the lake!” yelled a Gryffindor. 

Harry watched in awe as ripples, then a small whirlpool formed at the center of the Black Lake. A long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the lake, followed by rigging. Moonlight gleamed of the shining black wood as the rest of the ship rose out of the water. It had a skeletal look to it, and Harry fancied it looked a bit like the Flying Dutchman. Dim, misty lights shone from the portholes, furthering the illusion. With a great sloshing noise not unlike a plunger being removed from a toilet, the ship fully emerged from the lake and settled onto the surface of the water. An anchor splashed into the water, and a plank was lowered to the bank with a slight thud. 

People began to disembark, and they all appeared to be rather pudgy. As they drew closer, Harry realized they weren’t actually large, but rather wearing cloaks of a shaggy fur. The man leading them, presumably Karkaroff, was dressed in far nicer furs in a sleek shade of silver. 

“Dumbledore!” he called heartily, his friendly tone not reaching his eyes, “How are you?” 

“Quite well, as always,” Professor Dumbledore said, reaching out to shake the other wizard’s hand. 

Karkaroff gazed up at Hogwarts. “Ah, Hogwarts, what a sight for sore eyes! How good it is to be here, how good...Viktor, come along, into the warmth...you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…” 

Karkaroff beckoned Viktor forward, and a furor of whispers passed through the student body. 

Harry looked sideways at Ron. “Viktor’s going to be real annoyed. Karkaroff’s always trying to show him off...think his fame will rub off on him somehow.”

Ron winced. “I see what you mean. And I’m glad I got his autograph at the World Cup this summer so I won’t embarrass myself like those idiots over there.” 

Harry looked over at a pair of witches who were debating whether Viktor would sign their hats in lipstick and winced. “Poor bloke’s going to have his work cut out for him.” 

Ron nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Oh, look, they’re finally letting us back in.”

They made their way back into the Great Hall where the Beauxbatons students had already established themselves at the Ravenclaw table. “A bit bold, that,” Harry noted. 

Ron snorted. “Maybe they thought all the blue was for them.” 

Harry and Ron made their way past the Durmstrang contingent, who were all gathered at the door, clearly unsure of where to sit now that the Hogwarts students were filing into the Great Hall. Harry quickly made eye contact with Stefan, and gestured towards the Slytherin table. The Bulgarian whispered something to his brother, and the Durmstrang students made their way over. 

“Oi, budge up, Ron, make space for the Krums…” 

Ron scooted over, and both Krum brothers sat down, ignoring some of the jealous glares of the other Slytherins. 

“Nice hall you all have here,” Viktor said, Bulgarian accent slightly noticeable. “It is much more...artistic than the one we have at Durmstrang.” 

“And much warmer too,” Stefan complained, pulling off his furs to reveal blood red robes, “They told us it would be cold in Scotland. Pffft, you don’t understand cold until you have been outside at Durmstrang in the winter.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Sure.” 

“Who’s that?” Viktor asked suddenly. 

“Who?”

“The girl, several seats down, with the curly hair.” 

“Oh, that’s Hermione. Hermione Granger,” Harry said easily. “Any reason for asking?” 

Viktor shrugged. “Not really. She looks a bit like my cousin, that’s all. I was wondering if she was related, but I don’t think we have any relatives named Granger.”

Stefan craned his neck to get a better look. “She does look a bit like Darya, doesn’t she?”

“Who do you think they’re adding chairs for?” Ron interrupted, looking at the High Table. 

Harry took a look. Sure enough, there were four extra chairs added. “Dunno. Two have to be for Madame Maxime and Karkaroff.”

“Obviously. But the other two?”

Harry shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

At last, everyone was settled, excluding the two extra chairs at the High Table, and the Headmaster stood. 

Professor Dumbledore spread his arms wide, smiling genially. “Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, ghosts, and most particularly, our honored guests. I am incredibly pleased to welcome you all to Hogwarts, and I hope and trust that your stay here will be comfortable, enjoyable, and educational. The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” Professor Dumbledore continued. “Now, I invite you to each, drink, and make yourselves at home!” 

Immediately, the plates filled themselves of food, and while there were the usual assortment of steak-and-kidney pie and toad-in-the-hole, there were several tureens of food Harry didn’t recognize, including something that looked like a shellfish stew. Not being an overly adventurous eater, Harry helped himself to the steak-and-kidney pie and amused himself by watching classmates attempt to be sophisticated with the foreign food. Well, most of his classmates, that was. Hermione and Draco seemed to actually be enjoying the shellfish stew, and not simply eating it for social kudos. 

They were at least twenty minutes into the feast when the two extra chairs were filled. One was occupied by Ludo Bagman, which wasn’t surprising given that the Department of Magical Games and Sports had helped organize the Triwizard Tournament. The other was filled by a thin man with greying hair who Harry quickly recognized as Lord Bartemius Crouch. 

“I thought Crouch was fired!” Harry whispered to Ron. 

“Shhh! Not so loud. He was, ah, temporarily moved to another department when the scandal with his son blew up again, but he’s back with the Department of International Magical Cooperation. They had someone else doing his job for a bit, and realized that while Crouch has gotten a lot of bad press, he’s kind of indispensable. At least that’s what Percy told me -- Crouch is his boss -- and while Crouch is a pretentious arse, he knows how to do his job.” 

“I see.” 

The desserts came out shortly after, and were just as diverse as the main course. Harry was feeling a bit bolder, and sampled some of the French desserts, which turned out to be quite tasty. Finally, when the last of the desserts vanished from the plates, Professor Dumbledore stood once more. 

“Now that everyone is fed and watered, I do believe the moment you all have been waiting for is upon us. Before we bring out the casket --” 

A murmur of interest passed through the Great Hall. 

“--I would like to say a few words to acknowledge the work that two individuals put in to make this Triwizard Tournament a possibility. Please give a round of appleasure for Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and for Lord Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.” 

Everyone diligently brought their hands together. 

“Not only have Mr. Bagman and Lord Crouch worked for months on arranging the tournament, but they also will be joining myself, Madam Maxime, and Professor Karkaroff in the judging panel.” Professor Dumbledore paused for a moment. “Mr. Filch, if you could bring out the casket.” 

Filch emerged from the shadows carrying a large, jewel-encrusted casket as the entire Great Hall seemed to hold its breath. 

“Mr. Bagman and Lord Crouch have already examined the instructions and challenges that each champion will face during the course of the tournament. There will be four tasks -- three individual, and one where you must collaborate with the other two champions from your school for a team effort. These tasks will be spaced throughout the school year, and will test the champions’ magical prowess, daring, deduction, and ability to cope with danger. 

“Three champions will be chosen from each school,” Professor Dumbledore continued, “one from years three to four, one from years five to six, and one to those who are of age. The date of the first task will not be until after the 31st of October, so sixth year students who will turn seventeen prior to then should enter in the ‘of age’ tournament. The champions will be chosen by an impartial judge, which will not chose select you if you placed your name incorrectly. Now, you must be wondering what is meant by that. May I introduce you to… The Goblets of Fire!” 

With that, Professor Dumbledore tapped his wand thrice on the casket and reached deep inside to pull out a large, rough hewn goblet filled with dancing blue flames. He reached inside again, and pulled out two smaller flame-filled goblets, one brilliant silver and the other a rich bronze. 

“Anyone who wishes to enter themselves as a champion must write their name and school on a piece of parchment and submit it to the correct goblet; the bronze goblet is for years three and four, the silver goblet is for years five and six, and the wooden goblet is for those who are of age. I strongly discourage cheating, and each goblet will have an age line around it to prevent anyone from entering in the wrong goblet. Aspiring champions will have twenty-four hours to submit their names to the Goblets of Fire, and tomorrow evening the champions will be revealed. 

“Before anyone enters their name, I would like to make several conditions clear: firstly, the submission of your name constitutes a magically binding agreement. If you enter your name, you have fully committed yourself to becoming your school’s champion if the goblet chooses your name. Secondly, for those of you who play Quidditch, tryouts will be held shortly after the champions are chosen. If you are chosen as a champion, you are still allowed to play Quidditch; however, you will not be eligible to be a team captain.

“The Goblets of Fire will be in the Entrance Hall. Please take the next day to carefully consider whether or not you would like to enter. With that said, I would like to extend one final welcome to our guests, and wish all of you a good night.” 

There was a mild ruckus as everyone stood. Hermione bustled over to them. “So? Are you going to enter?” 

Ron grinned. “You bet!”

Harry thought for a moment. As much as he wanted to captain a Quidditch team, the Triwizard Tournament sounded far more exciting, as well as a chance for him to prove that he was good at something other than Quidditch. Harry grinned broadly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter have been heavily borrowed from chapters fifteen and sixteen of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire


	9. The Champions

# 

_ Millicent Bulstrode, Hermione Granger, and Lilian Moon’s Dormitory Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 7 September 1994 _

 

“So, did both of you put your names in the Goblet?” Lily asked as she sprawled across her bed, chin propped on her hands. “I put mine in last night.” 

Hermione looked up from an Arithmancy calculation. “I put mine in last night, too.” 

“I didn’t.” 

Hermione looked at Millie in confusion. “You didn’t? Why wouldn’t you?” 

Millie shrugged. “Didn’t want to.” 

“Why not?” 

Millie shrugged again, shoulders hunching. “Dunno.” 

“C’mon, there’s got to be some reason!” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“...so there is a reason, then.” 

Millie was silent.

“Millie?” 

“Don’t push it. Please.” 

“Are you scared of something?” 

“ _ Don’t _ push it.” 

“Is it --” Lily hesitated “--is it something to do with your parents?” 

The question hung heavily in the air, and Hermione stopped scratching away at Arithmancy to fully listen. Something had changed in Millie’s face; something was missing, and Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on it. 

“You know I can’t answer that question.” 

“Millie --”

“Don’t.” 

“I just want to --”

“--you’re not being helpful.”

“I’m sorry, I --”

“--just stop. Please.” 

Lily opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. Slowly, the tension began to seep out of the air, and Hermione turned back to her desk, pretending to work on Arithmancy while her head spun. She had to be missing some crucial piece of information. It made no sense for Millie’s parents to forbid her from entering in the Triwizard Tournament. 

Hermione closed her eyes in frustration. She knew there was some detail about Millie’s family she was forgetting, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was.

* * *

 

_ 12 Grimmauld Place _

_ London, England _

_ 7 September 1994 _

 

It was always dark in 12 Grimmauld Place, and each time he went up or down the main stairs, Sirius could feel the eyes of the dead house elves watching him. He’d nearly murdered Kreacher because the bloody thing wouldn’t leave him alone, muttering endlessly, hovering in corners, bloodshot eyes tracking Sirius’ every move. It was only through Harry’s insistence over the summer that Sirius hadn’t offed the deranged house elf, and Sirius was sorely regretting the promise he’d made his godson. 

Grimmauld Place was more sinister without Harry’s cheerful presence, and Sirius could feel himself sinking deeper into his Azkaban-self. His mind was quick to jump from one downward spiral to the next, sinking deeper into guilt, frustration, falling into gut-wrenching heartbreak which hurt badly enough that it was all Sirius could do to curl up in a ball in his bed and try to forget the world existed. 

It was easier, when Harry was around, to ignore his Azkaban-self and pretend everything was normal. Without him...Sirius didn’t know if he’d have a reason to keep living. A sharp rap sounded on the window, and Sirius flinched. It was an owl. It wasn’t just any owl, however. No, Sirius was far too well acquainted with this particular owl, a regal eagle owl belonging to Lucius Malfoy. 

Fingers trembling, Sirius pushed himself out of bed, and unlatched the window. The owl flew in, and stared at him disdainfully before extending a leg. Gingerly, Sirius removed the letter, and broke the seal.

 

_ Sirius --  _

 

_ While I must respect your privacy and need for recovery after your forced incarceration, I must remind you once more of your civic duties. The Black seat has languished for far too long, and I strongly urge you to take up your rightful place. After all we have done to help you rehabilitate yourself, the only thing I ask is for you to help restore the Noble and Moste Ancient House of Black to its proper place in the Wizengamot.  _

_ Until then, I remain, _

_ Your loving cousin Narcissa _

 

Sirius let out a slow breath. He’d been expecting worse, far worse, especially given Lucius’ proclivity for insidiousness. Narcissa, on the other hand, was family of a sort, which made matters better on one hand, and worse on the other. Sirius knew the Black family inheritance laws as well as his cousin, and he knew Narcissa would be priming Draco to take over the Black seat on the House of Lords when Sirius finally kicked the bucket. 

Sirius was almost certain that she was only counting down the days. Although, Draco had been on the outs with the rest of the Malfoys recently, so perhaps Narcissa was hoping Sirius would continue living for a while longer. It was impossible to tell anything when Malfoys were concerned, except for that they clearly expected him to take a strong Traditionalist stance. That was very obvious, and something Sirius wasn’t sure he believed in. His parents had been hardlined Blood Purists, and Sirius had by far preferred the more Progressive leaning policies pushed forward by Charlus Potter, Thomas Weasley, and William Prewett. 

Then, the Dark Lord happened. 

Both James’ parents died, briefly leaving him as Lord Potter before Petter  _ fucking _ Pettigrew murdered him. Out of Thomas Weasley’s four children and their families, only Arthur’s branch survived, and Molly was the last of the Prewetts, except for Muriel, who no one counted since she had long passed the point of senility. Three great wizards, all a part of the Neutral-Traditionalists that leaned towards the Progressive bloc, had passed through the Veil, and with their passing came a great loss of Progressive power. 

Of course, there were still the Abbotts, the Browns, the Flitwicks, and William Weasley was doing his damned hardest to restore his family’s power, but none of it was enough. And it was all because of Albus Dumbledore. 

Sirius didn’t think he hated anyone more than he hated Dumbledore. The wizard had left him to rot in Azkaban without a trial, without so much as a second consideration. How in the name of Merlin had the old man deluded himself into thinking Sirius was guilty? They had dumped the blame on his head just because he was a Black, just as they’d shunned Moony for being a werewolf. 

Sirius crushed the letter in his hand. Dumbledore was a self-centered, high-handed git for all Sirius cared, and he longed to see the day that the Headmaster was brought to justice. That act, however, would be tremendously difficult, and as much as he wanted to march up to Hogwarts and give the manipulated arse a piece of his mind, Sirius knew that wouldn’t work. Dumbledore would just smile at him benignly, and act disappointed that Sirius wouldn’t blindly follow him anymore. No, Sirius had to come up with a cunning plan. A plan that Dumbledore wouldn’t anticipate. 

Sirius uncrumpled the letter, spreading it smoothly on his desk. Perhaps Narcissa did have a point. Even if she didn’t, Sirius knew at least one thing was true: the Malfoys hated Dumbledore just as much as he did. 

Sliding into his desk chair, Sirius summoned a fresh sheet of parchment, and an elegant, Self-Inking eagle feather quill.

 

_ Dear Narcissa, _

_ While I don’t wish to admit it, you are right. I will assume my rightful place as Lord Black with one condition. I believe we have a mutual enemy, and I would rather enjoy seeing him meet his well-deserved end… _

* * *

 

_ Great Hall _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 7 September 1994 _

 

Hermione ate mechanically as nerves swirled inside her. All she wanted was for her name to come out of the Goblet of Fire, and she had a sinking feeling that wouldn’t happen. Sure, she was the best student academically in her year, but Ron was close behind her, as were Padma Patil and Terry Boot from Ravenclaw. Harry was an amazing Quidditch player, and no slouch at Defense or Transfiguration either, and Draco had improved a lot over the summer. There were also the third years to contend with, although Hermione was significantly less concerned about them. Vesper Dearborn was allegedly a Charms prodigy, but was pants at half the other subjects, and Anna Runcorn was a good student, but not nearly as skilled as Hermione. 

Lily and Millie kept casting concerned looks across the table, but Hermione ignored them, still worried about the Triwizard Tournament. Even if by some miracle she was chosen, she would still have to contend with the champions from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Hermione hadn’t had the chance to meet all of them in person, but according to the Hogwarts rumor mill, there were several witches and wizards to watch out for. Erik Karkaroff was the Durmstrang Headmaster’s son, and quite nasty for a third year. Two of the Durmstrang fourth years, Werner Dietrich and Georg Wiesler, were also notable, and Stefan Krum had actually warned her to stay away from Wiesler. It was rather kind of him, especially since they were only loosely acquainted through Harry. 

For someone who claimed to not care much about politics, Harry was very well connected. Not only was he chummy with both the Krum brothers, but he also was friendly with the French Malfoys. There were several other traditional purebloods from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons that Harry had been able to easily ingratiate himself with based off of easy charm and the perk of being the Boy-Who-Lived. It frustrated Hermione to no end as she was certain if she’d tried to introduce herself, they’d quickly dismiss her as an uppity Mudblood. 

Hermione picked listlessly at the remains of her dinner. The blatant discrimination against muggleborns was supremely frustrating, and Hermione hoped beyond hope that she would be selected as a champion to prove beyond a doubt that muggleborns could be just as skilled as their pureblood counterparts. Of course, there’d likely be complaints from the Traditionalists, and allegations of cheating, but Hermione was confident she could avoid those. After all, if there was anything she was good at, it was following the rules. 

Foot tapping under the table, Hermione absently ate a slice of chocolate raspberry tart, then held her breath as the desserts cleared and Professor Dumbledore stood. 

“Now that we are all fed and watered,” he began, “it is time for the Goblets of Fire to select our champions.” On cue, Filch walked onto the dais, carrying a small table with all three Goblets. Dumbledore clapped his hands twice, and three flags unfurled on the right end of the dais, one bearing the Hogwarts coat of arms, and the other two displayed what Hermione assumed were the crests of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. “If you are called forth as a champion, please come forth to the dais and stand beneath your school’s flag so you may be recognized. Kindly remain there until all champions are called.”

Hermione was practically vibrating in her seat. 

Dumbledore stood before the bronze goblet and waited for a moment until a brilliantly scarlet tongue of fire shot out bearing a slip of paper. “For our third and fourth year tournament, our champion from Beauxbatons will be Talon du Feu!” 

A tall boy with long auburn hair rose gracefully from the Beauxbatons table and strode to the front. 

Another tongue of crimson flame shot forward. “From Durmstrang, Georg Wiesler!” 

Hermione watched Wiesler shrewdly as he walked forward. He seemed rather arrogant. 

A third tongue of fire emerged from the Goblet. “And, from Hogwarts --”

Hermione held her breath, unable to move. 

“--Hermione Granger!” 

Hermione’s heart jumped as the Slytherin table erupted in cheers. Her brain seemed to be functioning at half speed, and Ron had to nudge her off the bench. Projecting confidence she didn’t feel, Hermione walked smoothly to the front and stood underneath the Hogwarts flag. Du Feu flashed her a winning smile, which Hermione returned, and Wiesler stared straight ahead. Hermione had the feeling he might be one of  _ those _ purebloods. 

Hermione clapped dutifully as Baptiste Malfoy was chosen to represent Beauxbatons in the fifth and sixth year tournament, and Stefan Krum was chosen to represent Durmstrang. Her clapping was far more enthusiastic for Euan McGonagall, who was picked to represent Hogwarts. It was unfortunate that no girls were chosen, but Euan at least was the good sort. 

“Lastly,” Dumbledore continued, “our champions for the highest age bracket...From Beauxbatons, Fleur Delacour!” 

The prettiest girl Hermione had ever seen glided towards the dais, flipping long silvery

blonde hair as she went. Hermione quickly became very self conscious of the tendrils attempting to escape her braid. 

“From Durmstrang, Viktor Krum!” 

The entire hall burst into the most enthusiastic applause yet. 

“And from Hogwarts...Cedric Diggory!” 

The Hufflepuff table lost their minds, and didn’t calm down until Dumbledore shot several purple firecrackers out of his wand. 

“I would like to personally congratulate all of our champions, and thank all of you who entered. For those who were not selected and would like to have an opportunity to demonstrate their skills, keep your eyes open for Quidditch tryouts and an informational session on the dueling tournament. Champions, if you would please follow me into the antechamber. Madam Maxime, Professor Karkaroff, Mr. Bagman, and Lord Crouch, if you will.” 

Hermione nervously followed Professor Dumbledore into the antechamber. She’d never been in the room before, and it was nicely decorated with simple dark furniture and a small blazing fireplace. The door shut behind them with a feeling of finality, and Lord Crouch stepped forward. 

“Congratulations on your selection as Triwizard Champion,” Crouch began dryly. “I would like to remind all of you that your selection constitutes a magically binding agreement, and you will be unable to withdraw from the tournament unless you suffer a debilitating injury. Your first task will take place on November 5 and will test your ability to think quickly on your feet. Prior to that, there will be a Weighing of the Wands ceremony as well as a press interview and photo opportunity. If you have any concerns, I suggest that you speak with your school’s Headmaster or Headmistress.

“Once again, congratulations on your selection for this historic competition, and I wish you all a pleasant evening.” 

Crouch melted back into the crowd, and the champions milled around idly. Hermione smiled to herself, butterflies temporarily gone. She was beyond determined to win the tournament, and she would prove, once and for all, that she could be better than any other witch or wizard. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a reminder that this story makes use of, and will continue to feature characters who are unreliable narrators.
> 
> Also, for those of you who are concerned about Harry getting opportunities, he too will get a moment to shine this year :)


	10. Reflections

# 

_ Salazar Slytherin’s Secret Library _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 12 September 1994 _

 

Ron gave one more half hearted scribble of numbers before sliding his chin down his arm to rest on the cool desk wood. If he was going to be honest with himself, he needed to admit it. Not necessarily out loud, but he had to acknowledge that within the recesses of his mind, he was deeply jealous of Hermione. He’d wanted to be the Triwizard Champion for their age division -- wanted it so badly it hurt. He’d wanted a way to prove that he wasn’t just another younger brother, and that the Weasley family name still meant something. He’d wanted to uphold whatever was left of the family honor and stick it to all those who sneered down upon him. And now, he didn’t have that chance anymore. 

Hermione had been named Champion, and she would have the opportunity to prove herself to Wizarding Britain. 

The worst part about it was that Ron knew Hermione deserved it. Deserved it more than anyone else in their year, if he was honest. She’d endured bullying and the challenge of transitioning into the Wizarding World, and had done it all with good grace. She’d worked hard, and was consistently top in their year. 

Ron sighed, and lay his cheek fully against the desk. The petulant child inside him wanted to stand up and proclaim that it wasn’t fair, and that he, Ron, deserved to have an opportunity. After all, he’d suffered as well, and he’d worked bloody well hard to get where he was now. 

The small voice in the back of his mind sneered at the thought. He had worked hard, of course, but Hermione had worked far harder at school. She studied more, participated more in class, and if it hadn’t been for a chance event, she would have also been taking more electives. Ron, on the other hand, had stagnated. Sure, he was taking challenging classes, he’d improved his Quidditch game, and he’d made plenty of friends in his year and at chess club, but it all felt so terribly childish. Especially given the letter he’d gotten from Bill. 

Ron took the crumpled parchment out of his pocket and flattened it on the desk, sitting up straight to read the words he’d nearly memorized. 

_ Dear Ron, _

 

_ I thought I would inform you by owl rather than have you find out in the  _ Prophet _. Next Wizengamot session, Charlie is planning on officially giving up his right to take the Gryffindor seat. I know we’ve discussed this several times, but given that Charlie will swear the proper vows over it, it’s likely to blow up unpleasantly. In light of this, George, then Fred are next in line. Both of us know they are not interested in politics, but they have yet to present an official decision on the Gryffindor seat. I have presented them with a deadline -- they must make a decision by their seventeenth birthday.  _

_ Assuming they will officially give up their right to the seat, you will be named as the next in line. While you won’t have any official duties until you come of age, I will expect you to attend networking events as well as observe some of the Wizengamot sessions. Percy and I have had some serious discussions lately regarding our family, and should you become the next Lord Gryffindor, you will be included in these conversations.  _

 

_ Best of luck at school, _

 

_ Your brother, _

 

_ Bill _

 

Ron laid his head back on the desk as the weight of his responsibilities fully settled over him. He would have to change, whether he liked it or not. He needed to study more, form better connections with his peers, and somehow keep persevering through it all so he didn’t lose his bloody mind.

Ron shifted his attention back to his homework, attacking the Arithmancy set with more vigor. Perhaps, if he worked hard enough, he could beat Hermione for the top spot in the class. That, at least, was something tangible he could work towards to stifle his constant feelings of inadequacy. After the champion selection, Ron had holed himself up in the secret library just to be away from everyone. Hermione’s moods alternated between beyond excited and beyond stressed. Harry had been quite disappointed at first, but had quickly moved on and submitted his name to captain one of the Quidditch teams. 

Ron hadn’t even bothered. He’d been too busy moping, and besides, he knew he had no chance of being chosen. There were only eight teams total, and at least one captain would be pulled from each House. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were also allotted one captain, which left just two spots up for grabs. He’d been shocked when Harry had been named a captain, along with Terence Higgs, who’d been slated as Slytherin captain prior to the Triwizard Tournament announcement. Roger Davies and Aoife Moran were tapped from Ravenclaw, and had a major advantage given that both had played in the International Scholastic Quidditch Tournament. 

Surprisingly, Angelina Johnson was the only Gryffindor named, and Jonathan Abbott was the rather lackluster choice from Hufflepuff given that Diggory was ineligible due to the Triwizard Tournament. Ron wasn’t familiar with either the Beauxbatons or Durmstrang captains, Louise du Feu and Katarzyna Mieczkowska, although he was fairly certain Mieczkowska had played in the International Scholastic Quidditch Tournament as well. 

The tournament would certainly be interesting, especially given that each team was required to have at least two different Hogwarts Houses and at least one foreign student. Shockingly, Dumbledore had decreed that first years would be allowed to try out for the teams, which Ron thought was a stupendously stupid idea given that most of them didn’t seem to know how to hold a broom. 

Ron sighed. With any luck, he’d get to be on Harry’s team, but his hopes were low given that there were plenty of people who were better Keepers than him. With another sigh and a small shake of his head, Ron pushed thoughts of Quidditch out of his mind and thoroughly focused on Arithmancy. 

* * *

 

_ Sybill Trelawney’s Private Quarters _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 14 September 1994 _

 

Aurora’s nose wrinkled as she entered Sybill’s quarters. In the past, the other witch had dealt with the aftermath of her visions by consuming copious amounts of sherry, but it seemed that she’d found a new method. It wasn’t enough for her to question her friendship with Sybill -- they’d been casual friends since Aurora had joined the staff almost ten years prior -- but it was enough for her to question how much time she really wanted to spend in Sybill’s quarters.

She winced at the smell. “Really, Sybill? Cannabis?” 

Sybill didn’t respond, busy as she was laying out a set of delicate threads suspended between deeply colored crystals. She took another puff, and the pungent odor wafted through the room. 

“I’ll take overpowering incense any day,” Aurora muttered quietly, seriously considering casting a Bubblehead Charm. It would be rude, of course, but it would mean she could breathe properly. 

Sybill finished setting up her crystals, and blinked at Aurora as if she’d just registered her presence. She nodded once, then continued wandering around the room, occasionally stopping to caress the curtains or drag her fingers slowing across a tabletop. It was odd behavior, even for her, and Aurora couldn’t tell if that was because the future had gotten worse or if Sybill simply wasn’t coping well. 

Quite honestly, it could have been either. With Sybill, it was difficult to truly tell. 

The woman knelt tossed a handful of herbs into the air, and knelt before the ebony table with surprising grace before wordlessly summonly a bottle of sherry and taking a deep drink. Then, and only then, did she lean forward, eyes glazing over as she stared deep within the depths of the crystal ball.  

She sat there, frozen, for nearly three minutes before the keening started. It was a high, ululating sound that made the hairs on the back of Aurora’s neck stand on end and her toes curl in her shoes. Sybill rocked forward and back, continuing to keen as Aurora’s sense of unease grew. There was something deeply wrong inside the crystal ball. Aurora’s heart felt too big in her chest, and the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe and she didn’t think she could bear another second of unnatural keening when suddenly it stopped. And Sybill spoke. 

“Pluto has risen.” Sybill’s voice was rough and broken. “Pluto has risen. Pluto has risen and the insidious Rahu continues to aid him in his perversions of Magic. The prodigal son has fallen from grace, and Neptune has returned to the shadows. The fates of Mars and Mercury continue to be intertwined and the storm grows stronger with each passing day. It grows and it grows and it grows and it GROWS BUT IT MAY NEVER BE STRONG ENOUGH.” The sound tore out of her throat. Sybill gasped for air, hands clenched around the edge of the table. “SHIVA’S GREED WILL NEVER BE QUENCHED AND HE WILL STRIKE DOWN JUPITER JUST AS HELIOS STRUCK ICARUS. THERE WILL BE BLOOD, ONLY BLOOD IF THE CHILDREN OF THE TUATHA DÉ DANANN SUCCUMB TO SHIVA’S WILL, AND NOT EVEN THE POWER OF BEIRA’S SONS WILL SAVE US.”

The room was quiet, save for the harsh sounds of Sybill’s breathing. “You will warn Jupiter,” she said suddenly, panic still on the edge of her voice. “You will warn him that Pluto has returned to the physical realm. Venus will not protect him.” 

Aurora rose shakily to her feet.  “Y-yes, of course --” 

Sybill’s hands reached out, pinning her wrists together and stopping her from moving. The grip was tight enough that she could feel the small bones crunching. 

“Do not breathe a word of this,” Sybill whispered, breath reeking of alcohol. “Swear on your life and on your magic that you will not reveal what has just transpired, beyond what I have given permission for you to do.” The witch’s eyes were wild and staring. 

Aurora quickly swore, and Sybill released her.  Aurora slumped on the wall, legs giving out. 

Sybill eyed her. “Leave my chambers, Aurora,” she said, voice softer. “You don’t need me to tell you that you have the Grim in your cup.” 

Aurora all but fled, feet darting down the stairs of the North Tower without consulting her mind. It wasn’t until she was halfway to the dungeons that her legs began to give out once again as she leaned against a window, trying -- and failing -- to ward off a panic attack. 

* * *

 

_ Quidditch Pitch _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 17 September 1994 _

 

It was a perfect day for Quidditch, Ron reflected happily, gazing up at the cloudless sky. The air had a touch of bite to it, promising colder months to come, but it was chased off by the heat of the early afternoon sun. It looked as if three-quarters of the school had come out to watch tryouts, and a significant chunk of them looked prepared to fly, including a bunch of the first years. Ginny was there too, with several of her annoying friends. Ron fervently hoped they weren’t on the same team. 

Hefting the Nimbus 2001 he’d borrowed from the Slytherin locker room, Ron surveyed the competition. Ginny was clutching an old Moonflight, which she’d beggared off Bill. It wasn’t a good broom by any standards, but it was far better than Charlie’s Shooting Star. Harry was in the middle of a captain’s meeting with Madam Hooch, and was holding his Firebolt. Both Krum brothers also had Firebolts, and everyone within a ten meter radius was trying not to stare. Oddly enough, Malfoy  -- Draco, not one of his cousins -- had a Nimbus 2001. He’d been bragging in the common room last year about how his father was certain to buy him a Nimbus 2003, at a minimum, if the Firebolts were still backordered. It was patently obvious that Draco hadn’t gotten his wish. 

A loud whistle blew, jolting Ron out of his thoughts. Madam Hooch stood on a small elevated platform alongside the captains. “Attention! Tryouts for the Quidditch tournament will begin shortly. If you are not planning on trying out, please return to the stands.”

Several of the Krum ooglers left, but most of the crowd remained in place. Madam Hooch seemed slightly annoyed. 

“Before we begin, I will introduce the captains and explain how tryouts will work. Each team has been named whimsically--” her mouth twisted oddly around the word “-- and each captain is well-qualified to do their job. The captains have been given lots which represent the order in which they will choose players for each position. The captains have agreed to a standard tryout for each position, and before those tryouts begin, all of you will need to pass a basic flying skills test administered by me.”

Most of the first years and some of the second years looked terrified.

“Now, to introduce your captains...leading the Skipping Cerberi will be Katarzyna Mieczkowska.” 

A tall blonde girl wearing a Durmstrang jumper stepped forward on the platform, and

gave a perfunctory wave. 

“Harry Potter will lead the Galumphing Hippogriffs...Angelina Johnson is the captain of the Whistling Nifflers...Roger Davies will lead the Bouncing Unicorns, Aoife Moran is the captain of the Flipping Flobberworms…” 

Ron struggled not to laugh at the absurdity of some of the names. 

“The Chortling Phoenixes will be led by Jonathan Abbott, Terence Higgs will captain the Dancing Manticores, and lastly, Louise du Feu will lead the Charging Grindylows.” 

There was a polite round of applause. 

“Let’s begin,” Madam Hooch said brusquely. “The flying skills test will consist of a lap around the Quidditch Pitch followed by weaving through the agility poles in the center. Does anyone have questions? No? Very well. Line up by year...first years, you may go now…” 

The majority of the first years were terrible at flying, but several made it through, including two of the Slytherin first years -- Nigel Thompson, who was tall and lanky, and Carla Del Valle, who was short and had hair curlier than Hermione’s. 

Ron breezed through the flying test, as did most of the other upperclassmen, then settled in for a long wait. Tryouts progressed slowly, starting with Beaters. Fred and George were unhappy about being chosen for different teams, and everyone who had played against Fred and George were relieved. 

Harry had done fairly well for himself so far. He’d gotten Stefan Krum for his first pick for Beater, and Leila Warrington as his second. While Leila wasn’t as good as Millie, she’d grown by leaps and bounds playing in the Slytherin reserves, and always had a positive attitude. Ron had been pleased to note that Millie had been one of the top picks for Beater. Mieczkowska had chosen her, along with another Durmstrang girl who rivaled Millie in height. Millie had grinned the entire time, clearly glad to have realized her dream of having an all-girl Beater team. 

The Chasers and Keeper tryouts would be held simultaneously. There were seventeen people waiting to tryout for Keeper, and at least forty waiting to try out for Chaser. Ginny was among them, chatting idly with her friends, Abigaile Johnson and Alexa Spinnet. The three girls had been trying to make their way onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team since second year, but had been unable to beat their older siblings and Katie Bell. 

Nigel Thompson was standing around looking nervous as Draco stood nearby with his cousins, Baptiste and Raphaёl. Raphaёl was saying something to Draco, and gesturing towards Thompson. Draco walked over, and much to Ron’s surprise, instead of crumpling in sadness, Thompson seemed to perk up. Draco said something, clapped Thompson on the shoulder, and returned to his cousins. Thompson still looked nervous, but had more of an excited energy about him. Ron couldn’t help but wonder what Draco had said, and why he was acting so un-Malfoy like. 

“Ron, can you pretend we’re having a very serious and important discussion?” 

Ron started. Euan McGonagall was standing next to him, and looked a bit harried. “Sure?” 

“Thank goodness. McLaggen absolutely will  _ not _ shut up, and I’ve only just managed to escape.” 

Ron winced sympathetically. “Is he still going on about how he should have been Champion?” 

Euan rolled his eyes. “What do you think? It’s  _ McLaggen _ .” 

“He just doesn’t get it, does he? I hope nobody picks him.”

“You’d have to be a moron to pick him. Even O’Hare is better than McLaggen, and he’s a second year.” 

Ron snickered at that, and felt the tension start to leave his body. “You’ve got that right.” 

“Merlin, he’s such an idiot.” 

Ron was about to respond when Madam Hooch’s voice boomed. 

“Keepers and Chasers, your tryouts are about to begin. Since there are a lot of you, we will have two rounds -- during the first round, each Chaser will have the chance to make three shots, and each Keeper will have a chance to save approximately nine shots. After that, the captains will deliberate, and bring back no more than thirty potential Chasers and twelve potential Keepers. We will repeat the process, then they will make their final decision. Any questions?” 

“How will we know when to go?” somebody asked from the back. 

“I will announce it. Any other questions? No? I’d like to see Bell, Viridian, and Robins for Chasers, and Davis for Keeper.” 

Tryouts seemed to fly by, and before Ron knew it, it was his turn. He took a deep breath, hovering between the goalposts. This was it. All his surroundings blurred as he focused in on the Quaffle, saving seven out of nine shots. It wasn’t saying much, considering one of the Chasers had never played before. Euan McGonagall also saved seven out of nine, and Ron congratulated him. Cormac McLaggen only saved five out of nine, then complained that Ron and Euan had cheated. Unsurprisingly, no one listened to him. 

The captains were conferring quietly now, and Higgs brought a slip of parchment over to Hooch, who nodded in approval. 

“Ten Keepers will go onto the next round of tryouts...if I do not call your name, please return to the stands....Petersen, Khurana, Davis, McGonagall, O’Hare, Weasley, Dagworth, Connolly, Boucher, and Dietrich.” 

Ron breathed a sigh of relief, and McLaggen began to complain loudly. Several people told him to shut up. Most of them did so equally loudly, and McLaggen stomped off. 

“The captains have narrowed the field to twenty-eight Chasers...once again, if I do not call your name, please return to the stands...all three Malfoys, both Johnsons, both Spinnets, both Poliakoffs, Abadjiev, Nott, Robins, Thompson --”

Thompson looked overjoyed.

“-- du Feu, Bell, Viridian, Weasley --” 

Ginny broke out in an enormous grin, and Ron stopped paying attention. 

“-- Runcorn, Vance, and Fortescue,” Hooch finally finished. There was grumbling among some of the Chasers, but most of them moved to the stands with good grace. Tryouts continued in earnest, as now most of the Chasers were actually good. Ron managed to once again save seven out of the nine shots, which he was rather proud of until he watch Khurana, a tall Indian girl from Beauxbatons, save nine out of nine. Ron was impressed, a bit jealous, and slightly concerned that no team would want him. Of course, there were some people who only saved five or six shots, but it was all a toss up. 

The captains had a moment to make a decision, then lined up on the platform. Harry had third pick for Keeper, and Ron could feel his own nerves mounting. 

Angelina Johnson stepped up first. “I’ll take Khurana.” Several of the other captains looked annoyed, but it was an obvious choice. Khurana was clearly the best of the lot. 

Aoife Moran was up next, and chose Ulrike Petersen, who was also tall, and had a very severe haircut. 

Harry stepped forward, and Ron’s heart beat faster. Intellectually, he knew he was one of the better Keepers, but Euan wasn’t bad, and Davis was also half-decent. 

Harry grinned easily. “Weasley, come join the team!” 

Ron breathed a sigh of relief, and went to join the rest of Harry’s squad. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick me,” Ron said. 

“Why not?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, I’d be an idiot not to.” 

Ron could feel the tips of his ears turning red. “Thanks. So, who are you thinking for Chasers?” 

Harry looked thoughtful. “I have fifth, eleventh, and seventeenth pick for Chaser, so hopefully one of Malfoy’s cousins or Abadjiev or Bell, then we’ll see who’s left.” 

“Did you see that Thompson got through?” 

“Yeah. We need to make sure he makes it onto the reserves next year, regardless of if he makes a team. Theo’s sister made it through, too. I didn’t know Diana played Quidditch.” 

“I didn’t know either.” 

Harry looked up at the platform. “I’ve got to go pick Chasers. Stay here; I want to meet with everyone afterwards.” 

The Chaser pickings went slower. Harry ended up with Baptiste Malfoy, who he was quite pleased with, Ginny, and a second year Gryffindor named Demelza Robins. Higgs had last pick for Chaser and chose Thompson, who was practically bouncing up and down in excitement. 

Harry gathered up the team. “Alright, we technically don’t need to stay for Seeker tryouts, since I’ll be playing Seeker for us, but I think it’d be beneficial to watch, just to size up the other talent. We’ll meet here afterwards to discuss.” 

Most of the team wandered off, and Ron smirked. “You just want to scout for Slytherin for next year.”

Harry grinned. “And that, too. But mostly to see if Viktor picked up any new tricks. You should have seen Mieczkowska’s face when she realized she had first pick for Seeker.”

“Pretty much guarantees she’ll make it to semi-finals, huh?” 

“Yeah, as long as they don’t play us.”

“That confident?” 

“We did beat Durmstrang in the International tournament,” Harry reminded him. “I think we have better Chasers. Mieczkowska is a really good Chaser, but she’s got Hector Runcorn and Katelyn Vance with her, and Vance is pretty terrible. And I’ve definitely gotten better since then.”  

“She might have better Beaters, though. Millie and Ostrowska? That’s a dream team if I ever saw one.” 

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, that might be a problem. Stefan is really good, but Millie is definitely head and shoulders above Leila -- literally. We’ll see, though. She’s a quick learner, and I think she and Stefan will work really well together.” 

Ron nodded. “I trust you.” 

“I hope I made the right decisions,” Harry said, craning his neck to watch the Seekers. “But it’s too late to change anything now, so it doesn’t really matter.” 

The Seekers spiraled overhead. Krum was clearly in his own league, but several of the other Seekers weren’t bad either.

“Chang’s improved a lot over the summer,” Harry observed, “and Draco’s cousin is pretty good too.” 

Ron watched Apolline Malfoy execute a long dive. “It must run in the family.” 

“Mm. Also, Del Valle is really good for a first year. We need to make sure she’s in the reserves next year too. Her and Thompson. Make sure I remember that.” 

“What do you think you’ll make captain?”  
“Hopefully. I mean, they might pick Higgs, but if we beat his team in this tournament, I think I have a better shot.” 

“What about Warrington?” 

“Cassius? Nah, he’s terrible at coaching.” 

“Fair.” 

The Seeker tryouts progressed relatively quickly. Predictably, Mieczkowska ended up with Krum, Diggory was on Abbott’s team, which had Harry muttering, “Thank goodness, they need more than two decent players.” 

Del Valle was the last Seeker picked, beating out a couple of very disgruntled third years for a spot on Angelina Johnson’s team. She was even more excited than Thompson had been. 

Harry gathered the team by the edge of the stands. Demelza looked very overwhelmed to be standing near the famous Harry Potter.

Harry waited until everyone was seated comfortably. “Hi, everyone, as you all know I’m Harry, and I play Seeker. I’m really excited to be your captain and I think we’ll go far in this tournament. Before I go into any details, I’d like everyone to introduce themselves, and say their name along with their position.” 

They quickly went around the circle. Harry nodded. “Great. It looks like everyone has pretty recent brooms, expect for Ginny and Demelza. If there’s a chance you can find something better, that would be excellent, if not, I think I can wrangle some of the Slytherin house brooms for you to use.” 

Ginny and Demelza both blushed at being singled out, but looked delighted at the prospect of using a Nimbus 2001. 

“We are currently scheduled for practice three days a week -- Mondays and Thursdays after dinner, and Saturday mornings. Depending on how we’re doing as a team, I might schedule more practices. Hooch won’t be giving us the match schedule until next week, and I’ll pass on that information once I get it. Does anyone have any questions?”

“Do you think we’ll have a chance of beating my brother?” Stefan asked, accent slightly pronounced. 

Harry grinned. “I was planning on it.” 

Everyone smiled. 

“Alright, I’ll see everyone Monday.” 

The team dispersed, and Ron fell in step next to Harry. 

“You know,” Harry began, “I have a really good feeling about this team -- a good feeling about this year in general, don’t you?” 

Ron smiled broadly. “So do I. I’ve got to talk to Raphaёl Malfoy, actually, and see if he’s interested in helping organize a chess tournament…” 

Harry punched his arm. “You and your chess!”

“You’re one to talk; you’re obsessed with Quidditch!” 

“Oh, shut up, Ron.” 

Ron chuckled. Everything seemed to be looking up for him, and he couldn’t wait for the school year to fully start.


	11. Interviews, and Personal Politics

# 

_ Unused Classroom _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 27 September 1994 _

 

Rita snapped her Drooble’s Ever-Flavorful Minty-Fresh Gum and surveyed the room. Most of the champions were milling aimlessly around, although several weren’t. Rita’s eyes honed in on them. The ones who wandered around were usually the boring type -- too dull to keep up a conversation, or too nervous to actually settle down. The others, however, were socializing nicely in small groups. 

Rita chewed her gum thoughtfully. Cedric Diggory and Euan McGonagall were leaning against the wall, Diggory feigning nonchalance and McGonagall looking relaxed. There wasn’t much of a story to spin with Diggory, other than the fact that his father was an obnoxious social climber. Nor was there much to say about Euan McGonagall; he was the grandson of the current clan chief, Moray McGonagall, and the grandnephew of Moray’s sister, Minerva. Euan had the classic Scottish good looks -- pale complexion, blue eyes, and dark wavy hair. Rita narrowed her eyes in thought. Diggory was quite good looking too, and the pair appeared quite friendly. Perhaps an illicit romance, the stress on Diggory to find a wife and take up his father’s social climbing lifestyle despite his desire to have a more wholesome life with the McGonagall heir…

Rita’s quill scratched furiously. Perhaps not right away, although she could start laying the groundwork for later rumors, especially if something juicier didn’t surface. Rita scanned the crowd once more. Ah, the Delacour girl. Now that was a controversy if Rita knew one. Fleur Delacour was a quarter-veela, and from a prominent French family. Dolores Umbridge practically had an aneurysm anytime the Delacours were mentioned, and Rita had it from a reliable source that Dolores had been removed from a delegation to France for fear that she would cause a diplomatic disaster by insulting one of the Delacours or their friends. 

Rita chomped on her gum. If only there was a way to get Dolores and Fleur Delacour in the same room together -- now, that would be spectacular, and luckily for her, she could be as subtle as a bug on the wall. Baptiste Malfoy was standing next to Delacour, and Rita quickly dismissed him as yet another snob. 

The last group of champions gave Rita pause. Both of the Krum brothers -- the oldest, Viktor, looking quite like a large bird of prey -- and Stefan, the younger brother, who fortunately had avoided inheriting his brother’s overly large nose. Oddly enough, Hermione Granger was standing next to them. It had taken Rita a moment to recognize the girl who’d given her an excellent tip on Gilderoy Lockhart. Granger had clearly found a better hair product, or otherwise had stopped brushing her curls dry like an absolute idiot. Idly, Rita wondered how Granger had ended up talking to the younger Krum before dismissing the thought. Granger had given her good information, and if Rita didn’t pry too much into her personal life, perhaps she could get another inside scoop. 

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Rita jumped, lost as she was in thought. The old wizard was wearing a particularly insipid pair of robes today in a rich shade of magenta with tiny twinkling moons. “If I may have your attention… today, as you know, we will be conducting the Weighing of the Wands ceremony, which will be followed by photos and interviews for the  _ Daily Prophet _ , courtesy of the lovely Rita Skeeter --”

Rita smiled, and tried to look honest. 

“-- and her assistant, Bozo. Now, if you could all line up so that Lord Ollivander may weigh your wand…” 

Rita paid little attention to the wand weighing ceremony, as wandlore was both esoteric and boring. The only interesting tidbit was that Delacour’s wand held one of her grandmother’s hairs, which seemed quite scandalous. The French really did have odd ideas about what was socially acceptable. 

Dumbledore began to speak again, and Rita forced herself to listen. “If you could devote your attention to Ms. Skeeter, I believe she wishes to begin with photos?”

Rita nodded quickly. “We will begin with individual photos. Line up where Bozo is set up.” 

The students obediently walked over, although Delacour’s walk was closer to a glide. Rita forcibly stifled any feelings of insecurity. It was rather illuminating, watching the students take their photos. Of course, she couldn’t focused all of her efforts on observing — while Bozo wasn’t completely incompetent, he wasn’t the brightest photographer in the department and required significant input from her. Fortunately, most of the champions were easy to photograph -- they were all decently attractive, with the exception of Viktor Krum, but he at least knew how to handle photos. Werner Dietrich, the youngest Durmstrang champion, was a different matter. He was a boy with particularly average looks, with the exception of his eyes, which came across eerily blank each time Bozo photographed him. 

After the individual shots, it was time for group photos. The photos of each school’s champions were easy enough for Bozo, and Rita chewed her gum thoughtfully as she considered possible article angles. Sibling rivalry between the Krum brothers? Definitely a possibility. A love interest between Delacour and another competitor? Also a good option. 

Rita drummed her fingers against her thigh. Delacour and Granger, the only two female champions, and on top of that, Granger as the only muggleborn in the competition? Absolutely. 

“Any las’ pictures yeh want, Rita?” Bozo asked. 

“One more -- of Granger and Delacour.” 

Delacour waltzed over, and Granger, who clearly had never participated in a photoshoot before, looked frustrated before composing herself. The girls tried several poses -- sitting in armchairs, perched on the edge of the chairs, and standing -- but nothing seemed to be working. Delacour was just too damn poised, and Rita would be damned if she didn’t get a good photo. Rita’s eyes narrowed. If there was one thing that could hold attention for half a second alongside Delacour’s beauty, it was Granger’s hair, which was currently fastened back in a sensible plait. 

Rita aggressively chewed her gum. “Granger, take your hair out of the plait,” she said, ignoring the girl’s confused expression. “Delacour, stand at an angle to her. No, face the camera a bit more, and step back about six centimeters. Both of you, I want you to look fierce. Like you have something to prove.” 

Delacour’s chin tilted towards the camera, her features sliding into a practiced look of hauteur while Granger lifted her chin, a touch of defiance in every line of her body and hair spiraling wildly out of control. 

Bozo started snapping pictures, and Rita discreetly pointed her wand at the girls. “ _ Ventus _ .” 

A slight breeze surged forward, lifting their hair. It was a moment Rita felt would become iconic. 

Several days later, the photo appeared on the front page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ , alongside the provocative title  _ Impartial or Sexist: A Closer Look at the Triwizard Champions _ . Of course, photos of the other champions appeared as well, but only in the continuation of the article on page three. A handful of angry wizards wrote letters to the editor about that, and there were a few astonishingly crude letters about how a muggleborn witch and a quarter veela made their way into the Triwizard Tournament. All the other letters, however, were effusive, and Teen Witch Weekly even wanted to know if Rita had other photos from the shoot they could use in a spread. The Triwizard Champions were all Wizarding Britain could talk about for a couple days, and even Rita was surprised at how well her article had done. She would have been even more surprised, however, if she’d known just how far the news had spread.

Thousands of kilometers away, Madelaine Dolohova, née Delacour, delicately picked at her morning croissant in the spacious dining area of Zamok Holodnogo Ognja. A bowl of fresh fruit and a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ graced the table in front of her. 

Madelaine glanced at the cover of the  _ Prophet _ and smirked at her husband. “And what do you make of this?” she asked in Russian. 

Sergei finished chewing and smiled. It was not a particularly nice smile. “She greatly resembles Viktoriya. Time will tell if she also has her grandmother’s talents.” 

“It certainly would appear that your little cousin is talented.” 

“Mm. And she does have your cousin to guide her.” 

“Of course. It is not as if we have a shortage of family currently at Hogwarts.” 

Sergei nodded, eyes elsewhere. “After this year, we will add one more to the fold.” 

This time, it was Madelaine’s turn to smile. 

* * *

 

_ Wizengamot Chambers _

_ London, England _

_ 30 September 1994 _

 

Percy Weasley was frustrated. Or, perhaps more accurately, frustrated, annoyed, and irritated. When he’d first accepted his job at the Ministry and his place on the Wizengamot as Lord Prewett, he hadn’t imagined it would be like this. Instead of working to serve the common wizard, a decent portion of the Wizengamot Lords seemed to view their job as a status symbol rather than an avenue to do good in the world. It was particularly infuriating when the Blood Purists decided to blatantly ignore the former Death Eater accusations which had been levied against House Rookwood, and should have thoroughly disqualified them from seeking Ascendency.

After the most recent vote, the Ascendency candidates were narrowed down to Rookwood, Runcorn, and Marchbanks. Despite the former allegations against House Rookwood, it was the three candidates everyone knew would be the forerunners since the beginning. And yet, the entire process had to be dragged out over the course of a year. It was patently ridiculous. 

“And for these reasons,” Lord Gamp was saying, “I oppose Lord Gaunt’s proposition. While I agree that those who are muggleborn and muggle-raised must be educated about the rich history and culture of our society, I do not believe that the Wizengamot ought to interfere with the rights of minors outside of Hogwarts. Furthermore, I see this as a transparent attempt by Lord Gaunt to funnel more funds into his summer camps as he clearly has a conflict of interest.” 

 “Lord Gaunt, do you wish to reply?” asked the Moderator. 

Lord Gaunt smiled. Oh, how Percy hated that smile. Most people were charmed by it, but Percy found it unsettling. “Certainly. Honored lords and ladies, Lord Gamp makes a valuable point -- that is, it would be a valuable point if my summer camps were the only solution for which I am advocating. My proposal focused primarily on cultural immersion summer camps funded and sponsored by the Ministry with secondary options of attending a privately funded summer camp with equivalent cultural activities or fostering in a Wizarding family home. As I previously discussed, the objective with this proposal is to educate the muggleborn and muggle-raised on the rich traditions the Wizarding World has to offer --” 

The Moderator banged the gavel. “Thank you, Lord Gaunt.” 

If Lord Gaunt was annoyed at being cut off, he didn’t show it. Percy was mildly jealous. It seemed as if nothing could break Gaunt’s composure while Percy occasionally got nervous before he even stood to address the Wizengamot. Of course, a lot of it came down to practice and experience, and Percy was the youngest sitting Lord, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be envious. 

 “Lord Malfoy, you are recognized.” 

Lucius Malfoy walked gracefully to the front, and Percy squashed his inner anger at the man. Malfoy was another Wizengamot Lord whom Percy hated with a vengeance. He was a slippery, smooth talking, immoral arse, and he constantly tag teamed with Lord Gaunt to push Blood Purist and Traditionalist legislation through the Wizengamot. There were even rumors of covert bribes between Malfoy and the Minister of Magic, and Percy had no doubt that it was true. Anyone with half a brain who read the  _ Daily Prophet _ could tell they were in Lucius Malfoy’s pocket...along with most of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. 

“...and that,” Lord Malfoy was saying, “is precisely why Lord Gaunt’s plan has great merit. Without proper education, we cannot expect muggleborns and muggle-raised individuals to fully integrate into our society. Who are we, as witches and wizards of privilege, to deny this subsection of our population the experiences they need to become successful? Thank you.” 

Percy could hear his own teeth grinding. It was despicable, the way Lord Malfoy pushed forward a Blood Purist campaign under the guise of Neutral-Traditionalism. He could see that Gaunt and Malfoy only wanted to bring muggleborns further under pureblood control, and couldn’t fathom why the rest of the Wizengamot wasn’t protesting more. Sure, there were token complaints from old Lord Gamp, Lord Fawley, and Lord Dagworth, and much stronger complaints from Lord MacMillan, Lord Moran, and the Progressive bloc, but most wizards seemed surprisingly comfortable with Lord Gaunt’s proposal. 

The Moderator banged his gavel, jolting Percy out of his thoughts. “All in favor of concluding debate for today, light your wands.” 

Percy glanced at his pocket watch and lifted his lit wand. It really was getting late. 

“All those not in favor?”

No wands were raised. 

The Moderator banged his gavel. “I declare discussion for today closed.”

There was a rumbling as the members of the House of Lords stood and moved towards the exit. Someone tapped his shoulder. 

“Percy.” 

He started slightly. “Bill. You startled me.” 

Bill grimaced. “Sorry. Amelia Bones wants to speak with us.” 

“About?”

“You’ll find out,” Bill said cryptically. “Follow me.” 

Bill wove through the crowd, and Percy struggled to keep up. Much to his surprise, they didn’t head towards the DMLE offices, but rather deeper into the bowels of the Ministry. 

“Where are we --?” Percy began.

“Later.” 

After several twists and turns, they arrived in front of a plain oak door. Bill rapped sharply on it twice with his knuckles, and the door swung open. Feeling more than a bit nervous, Percy followed his brother in. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to lie beyond the door, but it certainly wasn’t a well furnished conference room. Lady Regent Bones was already present, along with Lords MacMillan, Moran, and Moon. Oddly enough, Rufus Scrimgeour, the Chief Auror was also present. 

Percy took a deep breath to calm himself as Bones cast a complex locking charm on the door. 

“You may be wondering,” Bones began, “why we called you here for a meeting. Before we begin, I will require an oath of secrecy from each of you, as the matters we will discuss not only contain a certain degree of speculation but also may jeopardize the future of Wizarding Britain.” 

Percy looked at Bill, who nodded. Given that there was nothing objectionable in the oath, the group quickly swore it. 

Bones took a breath, and continued. “There is something wrong in Ireland,” she began. Lord Moran looked as if he wished to object, and Bones held up a hand to silence him. “Not in Northern Ireland, but in  _ Ireland _ . The wardstones haven’t changed, but the power behind them has greatly increased. The last time this happened was in 1972.” 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. 

“The Morholt coven has reportedly isolated themselves from the other covens, and their motivation remains unclear.” 

Lord Moran paled. 

“I have a … source who believes the Sayre and Rowen covens are behind the change in the ward schema,” Bones continued. “The Quirke and Quigley covens are thought to be neutral in scenario.” 

Lord Moran rested his head in his hands, fingers massaging his temples. 

“Rufus brought it to my attention that support for Blood Purist and Traditionalist legislation has increased recently, and the last time we saw a surge this strong was in 1972, just prior to the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” 

Lord MacMillan swore, and Percy stared at Bill, goosebumps running down his spine. 

“Is it Him, then?” Percy heard his voice ask. 

Silence hung in the air for a moment too long. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was killed nearly thirteen years ago,” Scrimgeour said finally. 

Lord MacMillan ran a hand through his silver stained red hair. “Do you believe that?”

“Yes.” 

“But?” 

Scrimgeour sighed. “Recently, there have been attacks...attacks disturbingly similar to the ones that broke out in the winter of ‘75.” 

MacMillan and Moran looked horrified, and Percy was overwhelmed by an impending sense of doom. 

“And for those of us who were children then,” Bill began, “what sort of attacks are these?” 

Scrimgeour just looked at him, eyes dead. “Attacks against muggles. Gruesome attacks against muggles. Not very many, and not very often, but we’ve found dead muggles with all their internal organs removed. Either that, or all the skin was removed.” 

Percy almost threw up.

* * *

 

_ Great Hall _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 6 October 1994 _

 

Hermione fidgeted again, usually filled with nervous energy. It wasn’t even as if anything big was happening -- a lot of the gossip over the Goblet of Fire’s choices and the ensuring  _ Daily Prophet  _ article and  _ Teen Witch Weekly _ spread had finally died down. It was, however, the informational session on the dueling tournament. The Great Hall was filled with people, and it seemed like over half the school had shown up, along with all the students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Hermione and Lily had to engage in some serious cajoling to convince Millie to show up, and the taller girl looked generally uncomfortable. 

Millie looked uneasy most times, Hermione realized. The thought was rather discomfiting, especially when it dawned on her that Millie’s odd behavior had started at the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. It was strange, and somewhat disturbing, and Hermione  made a mental note to talk to Lily about it later. 

Hermione craned her neck as Professor Runcorn strode out onto the dais. She’d only interacted with him a couple times during the Slytherin-only supplementary DADA classes second year that Professor Prince had organized due to Lockhart’s gross incompetence. Professor Runcorn had been very competent, and Hermione was glad he was in charge of the dueling tournament. 

“Can everyone hear me?” Professor Runcorn asked, voice booming across the Great Hall. “Yes? Excellent. I am Professor Runcorn, and I am the Hogwarts dueling professor. I will be the lead coordinator of the dueling tournament, as well as several practice sessions which will be open to all students, regardless of school affiliation.” 

Hermione grinned. That would certainly be exciting, as well as a good way to test her skills for the Triwizard tasks. 

“The tournament will be divided into four divisions: first and second years; third and fourth years; fifth and sixth years; and seventh years. The tournament will take place after the third Triwizard task, and will be held in double elimination style. This means that you will be guaranteed two duels.” 

A murmur of interest passed through the Great Hall.  

“Depending on numbers, we may have certain students receive a bye into the next round of the tournament,” Professor Runcorn continued. “I will work alongside the Hogwarts DADA professors, as well as the teaching staff visiting us from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to determine appropriate matchups so everyone can have a fruitful dueling experience. The first open practice session will be held in the Great Hall on the Saturday following Samhain. Further information will be posted on the notice boards in your common rooms. If you have any immediate questions, you may ask me now; otherwise, I hold office hours from nine to ten, Monday through Friday, and in the hour immediately following lunch on Monday through Thursday.

“I hope to see all of you at the open practice session.” With that, Professor Runcorn stepped down from the dais. 

Hermione turned to her friends and grinned. “So are you excited or what?” 

Lily’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “Obviously! I’m definitely entering -- and we should also plan time on our own to practice and do some mock duels -- maybe we can even get Harry and Ron to join us.” 

Hermione nodded eagerly. “Oh, that’s definitely a good idea! And besides, it won’t just be good for the dueling tournament -- I’d imagine it’ll help us with DADA as well.” 

Lily elbowed her in the side. “Of course the first thing you think of is getting better marks.”

“Oh, shut it. And I think of other things, too.”

“Like boys?” Lily asked, drawing out the word. 

“No!” Hermione protested a little too quickly. “Like the Triwizard Tournament, and how I’ve got to kick arse.” 

“Suuure.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Really, Lily.” 

Lily held her hands up in defense. “If you say so.” 

“Hmph.” 

“Millie, do you think you’ll enter?” Lily asked. 

Millie shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. I’ve got to talk to family first.” 

“You know you can make your own choices, right?” Hermione asked. “I mean, you’re almost fourteen.” 

Millie’s expression turned surprisingly bitter. “No, I can’t. You both should know that.” Millie walked off, leaving Hermione and Lily standing together.

“I am concerned about her,” Hermione said once the silence had stretched for too long. “Really, truly, concerned.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: To answer some of the questions that have popped up in comments…
> 
> Q. What’s Voldemort up to?  
> A. For now, still (mostly) secret things. If you’re curious, I’d suggest re-reading the last chapter of Black Bishop and taking a closer look at what Trelawney says. 
> 
> Q. Did Trelawney make a prophecy?  
> A. Nope! This Trelawney is just more competent. 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


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